


Boston Marriage

by pendrecarc



Series: Suite for Strings and Steel [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Big Bang Challenge, Case Fic, F/M, Genderswap, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:02:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 75,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/pseuds/pendrecarc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(see notes for warnings)</p><p>In which Jo Watson tries to take this therapy business into her own hands, London produces enough crimes of interest to satisfy even Sherlock Holmes, and the Bechdel test doesn't know what hit it. Game on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Element of Surmise (Section 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Armchair psychology; discussion of suicide in the context of a murder investigation; murder investigations, abductions, violence, and a great deal of associated unpleasantness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which motive is the key point, and Jo Watson takes satisfaction in the earning of some spectacular bruises.

Illustration by [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sleightofhand/profile)[ **sleightofhand**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sleightofhand/)

 

 

Jo Watson wanted to talk about going off her medication. Her therapist wanted to talk about men.

Well, she wanted to talk about sex, and the session took a few unexpected detours before Jo could bring it back where it belonged. Unexpected, but no longer unfamiliar: she’d covered most of them with Harry just the week before.

“Will you shut up about it?” Jo had said to her sister when the question first came up. “No,” Jo said to her therapist. “Really, no,” and in both cases there followed a split second of thoughtful silence before the inevitable follow-up.

“You’re very emphatic about that,” said Dr. Thompson. ( _Ella_ , she reminded herself halfheartedly. Jo could not imagine asking a patient to use her Christian name. In the service it had been different, but everything had been different in the service.) “Why such a strong reaction? It makes sense for me to ask whether you’ve had an interest in men since your recovery.”

Of course it made sense. Libido was one of those things a therapist was meant to ask about, along with mood swings, suicidal thoughts, and screaming nightmares. That didn’t make it any less unpleasant to answer.

“There’s no interest. There’s no…attraction. I suppose I’ve had enough of men.” Ella’s eyes flicked up from her notepad. “There comes a point where you’ve been surrounded by big, sweaty male bodies long enough to forget what was so fascinating about them in the first place. They’re just part of the landscape. Part of the job, you know.”

That earned her another intent look. This one held. “Which part of the job?”

“What do you mean?” Jo knew what she meant, because Jo was trying not to talk about what she meant. _Classic avoidance. Pt. refuses initially, but bringing it up in the first place indicates subconc. desire to discuss difficult topic._ She didn’t need to read the notes upside-down to know what they said.

Ella said, “The part where you were killing people, or the part where you were cutting them apart to keep them alive?”

“Both.” It came out easily, a straightforward answer to a loaded question. Let her chew on that for a while.

Instead the therapist added something to her already copious notes for that session and brought them straight back to sex. “So you’re no longer attracted to men.”

“That’s what I said.”

“To women, then?”

Yes, exactly like the conversation with Harry. Except her sister had said, “You’ve finally come ‘round to my way of thinking?” and Harry had been half needling her, half genuinely curious. Ella never displayed any emotion so pedestrian as curiosity.

“ _Just_ because I’ve taken rooms with someone,” Jo had hissed into her phone, cupping a hand over the speaker to keep her voice from carrying over to her flatmate. Said flatmate was draped over the sofa in an attitude that meant either she was listening to every word or she was plotting another experiment involving human flesh and hydrochloric acid and wouldn’t have noticed if Jo was bellowing at the top of her lungs. “Just because I have, it doesn’t mean I’ve come ‘round to your way of anything. Though as usual you’ve managed to make everything about you.” The conversation with her sister had not gone well after that point.

To Ella she said only, “No. Not to women, either.”

“So you’re no longer interested in sex. With anyone, just to be clear.”

“Yes.”

“What about sex in the abstract?”

“What?”

“Sex in the abstract. Leave individual people, male or female, out of the question. Does that still interest you?”

Jo didn’t like therapist speak, but she could produce it herself when necessary. She let her upper lip curl in what was probably not an attractive way. “You mean, have I experienced sensations of physical arousal since coming back to London.”

“If you want to put it that way.”

“So not sex in the abstract, so much. Sex in the concrete.”

“If you like.”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Is that unusual for you?”

“It’s unusual for anyone, isn’t it?” Which was both reductive and grossly inaccurate, but Jo was irritated, and Ella didn’t like it when she answered questions with more questions.

“Decreased sex drive is a common side effect of citalopram.”

“It started before I went on the medication. Though, now you mention it, that’s another excellent reason—”

“Decreased sex drive is also common in people who have undergone significant physical or mental trauma.”

“It started before I was shot.”

“So did the trauma.”

Jo very carefully did not grit her teeth. After all, she couldn’t afford the dental bills. “Did you want to talk about the war or about my love life?”

“We could talk about both. I was asking about your sexual interests, though. Can you tell me why you used the word ‘love’?”

“Because I’m starved for intimacy. You’ve caught me out. What is that, a reverse Freudian slip?”

Ella gave her a cool smile. It was not, surely, because she found that amusing.

“What?” Jo said.

“You’ve become more argumentative. During our first few weeks together, you were soft-spoken and very well-behaved. You lied about your progress, of course, but you lied nicely. Now you don’t bother. I’d say you came in here looking for something to argue about.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Was it better to be repressed and polite or liberated and belligerent?

“That depends, Joanna. You could choose to see it as a good thing.”

“I could also choose to point out that this session has run over by five minutes.”

“So it has. Are you comfortable leaving things here for the week?”

“Comfortable isn’t the word I’d use.”

Ella’s smile didn’t waver once as she showed Jo to the door.

She walked home, gratified to note that her leg was rock-steady. It tended to twinge worse after her sessions. Halfway there she remembered they were running short on bread and completely out of both eggs and milk. Jo’s skills in the kitchen began and ended with boiling water, but fortunately that was just about all that was required for hardboiled eggs. She’d discovered only the other week that if she made them for herself and left one or two lying suggestively on her plate, they would disappear before long. Someone had to make certain Sherlock was getting protein in her diet.

Someone also had to make certain their rent was paid promptly on the first of every month. Three and a half weeks ago this had fallen entirely to Jo’s lot, and as a result she was a little short, but Sherlock had assured her just the other night that there was enough in her debit account to make up for it this time around. It wasn’t that Jo minded fronting her the cash, at least in theory; it was just that Jo didn’t have the cash to front. On the other hand, she’d been given tacit permission to swipe Sherlock’s card whenever anything vital was at stake, and their milk supply had to count. She stopped off at the Tesco at the corner of York and Baker and went in to replenish their bare cupboards.

She came back out again ten minutes later, face burning with rage and frustration, and this time it wasn’t even because of the damned self-service checkouts. She reached the flat and threw the door open with all the violence of righteous anger. It rebounded off the wall with a crash loud enough, she was sure, to startle anyone upstairs. Good. Sherlock had been at the kitchen table when she’d left that morning, hunched over a beaker with the intense look that meant she would still be at it hours later. Jo hoped she’d dropped something corrosive. Sherlock rarely bothered with gloves.

“Insufficient funds!” she bellowed. That time she heard a sudden movement from above, like a chair scraping across the floor as its occupant jerked back in her seat. She drew a steadying breath and made her way up the stairs, putting each foot down with loud and angry deliberation. “Do you know how insufficient? So insufficient, Sherlock, that I had to fish change out of my coat pockets to buy half a litre of milk and a loaf or two of bread. Mind telling me how you plan to pay both halves of our rent with a balance that low?”

Sherlock’s voice came floating down the stairs. “Now is not the best time for this conversation, Joanna.” She didn’t sound at all startled. She sounded calm. She had no bloody right to be that calm, not when they were both about to be thrown out into the street and when they had come so very close to not having _milk_.

“Isn’t it? I think now is an excellent time for this conversation. As I recall, I also thought two days ago was an excellent time, or last week, or better still last month, but you always seem to have something more interesting to do.” She’d reached the door by then, and it flew open with another satisfying crash. “Well, you should know that this time I don’t care about that _fascinating_ murder-suicide that can’t possibly be a murder-suicide, or whether you’re in the middle of an experiment, or you’ve got a—guest.” Sherlock was perched crosslegged on the coffee table, and there was a man sitting in the chair opposite. Jo ran an automatic mental tally: black, late thirties, casually dressed. Not someone she’d seen at the Yard, and not Mycroft. Those were the only two categories she’d learned to apply to the people in Sherlock’s life, so this left her at a bit of a loss. “Who is this?”

“Next month’s rent, I hope,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“A client, Joanna. He has a case for us.” She was doing that thing she did where her face didn’t move at all when she talked, and the only clue Jo had as to her amusement was the angle of her eyes. “Scott Morstan, Joanna Watson.”

Jo set down the bag with her dearly-bought groceries. Morstan stood and reached for her hand, and could it be that simple? Apparently it could, and Ella might as well strike out everything she’d written in that session’s notes, because that rush of blood to certain areas was as clear a symptom as any limp.

If Scott Morstan had been born eighty years earlier, he’d have been one of those sepia-toned faces in old photographs, frozen forever in earnest youth, having died tragically young in the war and been buried somewhere in Flanders. Warm dark eyes, well-formed mouth, and a good strong curve to his jaw—his face was not striking enough to grace the tabloid covers, but it betrayed an appealing combination of assurance and sensitivity, and Jo was overthinking this and in half a second she’d have held the handshake for too long. He had a good, firm grip, the sort that told her that hand was capable of all sorts of useful things. She dropped it immediately. No wedding ring, she noticed, and could have kicked herself for looking.

“Ms. Watson,” he said, and he gave her a smile that had her stomach doing backflips and her pulse pounding somewhere decidedly south of her ribcage.

Jo had always found “Ms.” aesthetically unappealing but also liked it when a man didn’t assume things; still, the last thing she wanted to do was give up any ground. There would be no points for effort. “It’s Dr. Watson, actually.”

She’d been around enough to know the reaction to this would say a great deal. When he ducked his head just a little to hide his suddenly more genuine smile and said, “I’ll keep that in mind,” it was just about more than she could take.

“Mr. Morstan,” said Sherlock in a tone so dry Jo could feel the rainwater on her coat begin to evaporate, “is here about his wife.” Oh. “His _late_ wife. She died, what did you say, four months ago?” Very not good, then. The clarification was clearly for Jo’s benefit. Sherlock would never forget a detail like a victim’s date of death.

“Yes,” he said, stepping back to the armchair. Jo sank onto the couch next to Sherlock and folded her hands primly over her knees. “Val was killed back in August.”

“You said the police had ruled it an accident.”

“They did.”

“You disagree?”

“I do now. Back then, I was in shock, you know. I didn’t think twice about it.”

“But now you’ve reconsidered, and you want me to tell you what really happened.” Sherlock wasn’t hooked yet. Jo could tell.

“Not exactly.” Sherlock’s gaze narrowed. “I mean,” Morstan added, “I do want to know what happened, but that’s not why I’ve come to you. The police are reopening the investigation. They’re trying to get an order to exhume the body. They don’t think the first inquest caught everything.”

“What do you think they’re going to find?”

His jaw had gone rigid, betraying pain or grief or—fear? “I think they’re going to find that she was murdered. And I think I’m the one they’re going to arrest.”

 _That_ got her interest. Sherlock’s long and languid limbs gathered themselves until she was braced forward, knees to elbows on the sitting-room table. “Let’s start with your first assumption. What makes you think your wife was murdered?’

“It doesn’t sit right, Ms. Holmes. They said Val drowned in her bath. That doesn’t just happen.”

“But it does, Mr. Morstan,” Jo said, as gently as she could. “There are accidents, you know.”

“Not the way they said it happened. Read the police reports and you’ll see. It’s all wrong.”

“Drowned in her bath,” Sherlock said. “Back in August. Your wife was Valerie Hammond.” At Morstan’s nod, Sherlock let out a low _hmm_. “I did read about the case. Professional interest, you understand. Everything I had was from the papers. They said there were drugs involved.”

Morstan’s mouth twisted, not in grief this time but in anger. The expression sat oddly on his face. “That’s a lie. That’s a damned lie, but that is what they said.”

“So there weren’t any drugs.”

“She took a pill, but it was prescribed, for God’s sake. It made her drowsy was all. She had a glass of wine with it and then had a bath.”

“So yes, drugs, but only by the strictest of technicalities,” Sherlock said, which did nothing to soothe the furious lines in Morstan’s forehead. “That seems a strong case for accidental death.”

“You didn’t know Val,” Morstan said. “She’d never have been careless enough to mix wine with sedatives. She wouldn’t even take paracetamol with alcohol. She was one of those people who read the fine print on everything, and she’d never have taken anything without knowing all the side-effects and contraindications. People made that mistake about her all the time, you know. Just because she was the artistic type, just because she came across as passionate and impulsive, they thought she was careless. She was the most practical person I’ve met.”

“That’s still insufficient to deem the case a murder.”

“There was also the way she was behaving before she died.”

“And how was that?” Jo knew Sherlock well enough to hear the hint of impatience. She must be chafing under this piecemeal presentation of the facts.

Morstan looked down at his hands. “We were separated at the time, in the middle of a divorce, and outside the lawyers’ offices we weren’t talking. She called me three weeks before she died and said she needed to meet.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, at her house. She asked me for money.”

“Money from the man she was about to divorce?” Jo asked. “That seems like the wrong way to go about it.”

“You have to understand the way things were, Dr. Watson. We didn’t hate one another outright. It wasn’t like that. Maybe we should have, but Val didn’t have a resentful bone in her body, and I couldn’t bring myself to—”

He trailed off, leaving Jo uncomfortable and embarrassingly curious. She gave in to the latter impulse. “Can I ask why you were divorcing?”

“Infidelity,” Sherlock said, as though it was obvious. “Hers, not yours, and multiple offences.”

“Three men,” Morstan agreed. Jo could tell it pained him, but his tone was frank and his manner straightforward. “She broke down and told me or I’d never have worked it out. We made up after the first and tried counselling after the second. I probably should have known better. Then there was the last, and when she told me that time I asked her to move out. That was back in April.”

“Where these isolated incidents or extended affairs?”

“It varied. The last one went on for at least two months, but it was over by the time I knew about it.”

“Yet you say you didn’t hate her.”

“I suppose I had reason to. I tried, but I couldn’t quite manage it.”

“And when you went to see her that day, did you argue?”

“No. I won’t say it was a comfortable conversation, but we didn’t fight. We got all the arguing out after affair number two, I think, and neither of us had any left.”

“How much money did she want?” Sherlock asked.

“Six thousand pounds.”

That wasn’t small change. “Did she tell you why she needed it?”

“I asked, of course, but she all would say was that it was life or death, that I was the only person she could ask, and that she’d repay me before long.”

“And?”

“And I gave her the money.”

“I wouldn’t have thought a theatre’s lighting technician made enough to have six thousand ready to hand.” Morstan sat back in his chair, and from his alarm Jo assumed he hadn’t mentioned his career before she arrived. Sherlock waved a hand. “Your profession is moderately obvious, Mr. Morstan. The fact that you carry a small but high-powered LED flashlight in your coat pocket could mean any number of things, but you’ve used gaff tape to repair the torn corner of your shoulder bag, which narrows the field. I could mention at least six other indications, but I won’t waste my time on trivialities. Where are you employed now?”

“I’m head lighting director at the Emporium. You’re right about the ready money, but I’m careful about my finances, and I’d been saving. The six thousand was most of it, though.”

“And you gave it all to your adulterous wife.”

“I knew she’d pay it back,” Morstan said. “That was another thing about Val. She always paid her debts. More than paid them. She was very generous.”

Jo thought that was an odd thing to say about someone who’d cheated on him repeatedly, but Sherlock moved on. “Did she repay this one?”

“No. When I gave her the money, she said it might be some months before she could give it back.”

“And she died three weeks after this conversation. Did you tell all this to the police?”

“I did, but I don’t even know if they looked into it.”

“Not surprising.”

“I don’t understand,” Jo said. “If you’ve asked them to reopen the investigation, why would they suspect you?”

“I’m not the one who’s insisting,” Morstan said. “It’s her life insurance company. They want it ruled a suicide and not an accident.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “Money, again. Now we come to the second part of your earlier statement. Why do you believe the police will accuse you?”

“The husband’s always the first suspect, isn’t he? And then there was the divorce. We might not have hated each other, but we didn’t get on.”

“Yes, in general that _is_ a prerequisite for murder.”

Morstan flinched, and Jo could have kicked her for that bit of insensitivity. He cleared his throat. “There’s also the insurance money.”

“A pedestrian motive, but certainly a reliable one. How much?” Jo gave her a pained look, and Sherlock frowned. Then she sighed and told Morstan, “You should understand that I am able to be useful to you only by preserving a clinical detachment. If I ask you a question it is not because I mean to cause you distress but because I require an answer. Now, if you please, Mr. Morstan: How much did you stand to gain by your wife’s death?”

“Ten million.” Those two words fell between them with a hollow echo. Jo could not imagine this man in the possession of so much money. Jo could hardly imagine anyone in the possession of so much money.

“Not so pedestrian, then,” Sherlock said. “Extravagant might be a better word. Why such a high figure?”

“That’s just it, Ms. Holmes. I have no idea. I didn’t even know she’d taken out a policy, much less that I’d still have been the beneficiary.”

“Can you prove that?”

“I was hoping you could.”

Sherlock smiled thinly. “I shall do my best. In any case, I can see why the insurance company would prefer this to be declared a suicide. Though presumably they will also have to pay if the police determine it was in fact murder.”

“I suppose they think it’s worth a try.”

“For ten million, I would imagine so. When did she sign for the policy?”

“About a year ago.”

“And not a word to you.”

“Not one.”

“Did you see your wife again after that meeting three weeks before her death?”

“No.”

“Did you speak to her or hear from her in any way?”

“I transferred the money that afternoon, and she rang that night to thank me. We talked for less than five minutes. I asked her again if she was in any trouble, but she told me not to worry about her, that she had everything worked out. Then there was nothing until a plainclothes officer showed up at my door.”

“You must admit it looks suspicious.”

“I wouldn’t have come to you if I didn’t have good reason. Can you solve it?”

“Four months after the fact, with nothing to go on but the papers and a half-hearted police investigation?” Her eyes burned with the challenge. “Certainly I can.”

“In terms of payment…” Morstan began.

“You’ll find our services quite reasonable,” Sherlock said, naming a per-case rate that made Jo blanch. That would certainly cover the rent.

Morstan didn’t flinch at the price, but he had noticed the plural pronoun. “When you say ‘our’, Ms. Holmes—”

“I include Dr. Watson, of course.”

He looked as though he wanted to say something, but Sherlock was talking again. “We will also require reimbursement for any expenses, and there will be an additional fee for any danger undertaken by either member of the firm.”

“Danger?” Now he was really alarmed. “Is there much chance of that?”

“This is a murder investigation, Mr. Morstan. There is always the possibility of danger.” Jo could think of several words better than “possibility”, but this seemed like a bad time to bring them up. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to speak to the police before doing anything else. Your interests will be better served if I have some idea of where their investigation stands. Which brings me to my last point. I am accepting this case with you as my client, but do not assume that your freedom is my primary objective.”

“What is your primary objective?”

“The truth, Mr. Morstan. The pure, scientific truth of what happened. If my investigation proves your guilt rather than your innocence, that’s all the same to me.” Her eyes narrowed in amusement. “Though if my efforts land you in prison, I assure you that you will be released from any financial obligation.”

Morstan’s jaw was stiff again. He was a stubborn man, then, behind the reserved exterior, and unwilling to be pushed over. Jo approved. “I suppose I should be offended,” he said, “but you may as well hear it from me. I didn’t kill Valerie. Someone else did, and if you’re as good as you say, then that’s exactly what you’ll find out.”

“How gratifying. I hate being hired by murderers. Thank you, Mr. Morstan, that will be all. If you will give me your card, you will hear from us when I know what additional information we may need.”

He left with a polite, if not quite friendly, nod to Sherlock and another firm press of Jo’s hand. She was standing near the window, and when she saw him walk out onto Baker Street she was still pleasantly aware of her palm, the ghost of his lingering on her skin. “You don’t really think he killed her,” Jo said. “How stupid would he have to be, hiring a detective to investigate the death of someone he killed?”

“Stupid, or supremely confident,” Sherlock corrected. “Not that the two are at all mutually exclusive. He may think this will stand as a mark in his favour should the matter ever come to trial.”

“Assuming he’d be able to fool you into arguing his innocence.”

“An unlikely event, but he may not be aware of how unlikely. But no, I don’t suspect him.”

That was a bit of a relief. Not that Jo had believed it, either, but if there was anything worse than directing her first impulses of renewed attraction (and mutual attraction, too, if she was any judge) at a man who wanted them to investigate the recent murder of his wife, it would be finding that he was the one who’d killed her. Jo thought back on that morning’s session and wondered what Ella would have said about all this. Jo would have to be very careful not to bring any of it up when she went back in two weeks. If she did go back.

No sooner had she brought her still-tingling palm up to rub her leg than Sherlock said, “You should fire your therapist.”

Jo _had_ to make her stop doing that. “Funny, that’s just what your brother said.”

Sherlock made the face she reserved for Mycroft alone. As irritating as it was to have her mind read at inconvenient moments, at least Jo had worked out how to retaliate.

It was exactly the sort of comment that would have left Sherlock sulking for hours if there hadn’t been a ready distraction at hand. Her expression turned introspective, and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly before she snatched up the mobile from the table beside her. “What does one wear to a disinterment?”

“You’re not going to _that_?” Jo said, startled.

“There must be an established etiquette. Do they make cards for it? ‘On the occasion of your loved one’s untimely reappearance’, that sort of thing?” Before Jo could work out how to respond to that, Sherlock had finished dialling and was speaking rapidly and ungrammatically into the phone. “It’s me. Are you on the Valerie Hammond case?” Her lips tightened in the ghost of a satisfied smile. “Excellent. I’ll be there in ten.”

“You don’t like talking on the phone,” Jo said as Sherlock untangled her legs and stood up in one fluid motion.

“Lestrade’s been ignoring my texts. Something about the Richardson affair.”

As the conclusion to that case had involved a three-hour excursion into the London sewage system, a detour Lestrade had later declared unnecessary while wringing an unmentionable substance out of his jacket, Jo was not surprised. “But he’s taking your calls?”

“There’s a landline in his office. He’s been at his desk doing paperwork all morning. He won’t admit it, but he’ll be happy we interrupted. Now are you coming?”

It wasn’t until they were halfway to Scotland Yard that Jo realised she’d left the Tesco bag on the sitting room floor. She glanced at Sherlock, but it was impossible to to tell just yet whether this would be one of those cases that kept them away from the flat for several days running. She could only hope they’d make it home before the milk had time to curdle.

********

Somewhat to her surprise, Jo had found she liked DI Lestrade. They shared a similar attitude of mingled awe and exasperation for her flatmate, and she was convinced there was a substantial reservoir of affection hiding under that wry exterior. He’d never admit to it, but if nothing else the fact that he was still willing to work with Sherlock after the Richardson case spoke volumes.

He was also very good-looking. Jo had noticed this in a matter-of-fact way on first meeting him. Whatever Harry might say about her reasons for commissioning, Jo was quite free of daddy issues and didn’t have any particular preference for older men in positions of authority, so she’d absorbed it into her impressions of the good inspector without much thought. It came as a surprise, then, when they walked through his door and he growled something disapproving at Sherlock, and his gravely tones went straight to the pit of her stomach.

This was getting ridiculous.

She spent the next several minutes railing at her id for having chosen such an inconvenient time for a sexual reawakening and so missed part of the conversation.

“We’re trying to keep this quiet,” Lestrade was saying. “When you get involved, Sherlock, things are less quiet.”

“I am discreet.”

“When you want to be. But we don’t need you on this one. We wouldn’t even be reopening it if the insurance investigator wasn’t making such a god-awful fuss about it. They’re insisting it’s a suicide. It was accidental, if you ask me. There’s no mystery here.”

“Which I assume is why the file is open on your desk.” Sherlock plucked it up from an untidy mound of paperwork and turned it around, and Jo leaned over her shoulder to read along.

The first thing she saw was an autopsy photo of a woman, undoubtedly attractive until she’d been submerged in water overnight, though it took an experienced eye to see beyond the bloated features. Her hair was still striking, rich auburn waves cut into a very short pageboy.

“When is the second autopsy?” Sherlock asked.

“You can’t just march in here—”

“Evidently I can.”

Lestrade reached across the desk and took the file right out of Sherlock’s hands. “Right, I’ll have that back. You can’t just march in here and expect me to let you in on this. And come to that, why do you care about this case?”

“I’ve just been hired to investigate it.”

“By the insurance company? You can tell Hellers not to bother coming around again. He’s left me quite enough of these, and I’ve no intention of using them.” Lestrade had taken a business card from the top drawer of his desk and all but shoved it at Sherlock, who glanced at the name and then pocketed it. “When did you start hiring yourself out to corporations?”

“Not by the insurance company. By the husband.”

This was news to Lestrade. He dropped the file back to his desk, careful to keep it beyond Sherlock’s considerable reach. “Now why would it occur to him to find himself a private investigator?”

“Consulting detective,” Jo said automatically. Lestrade stopped just short of rolling his eyes at her.

“Mr. Morstan is under the impression that he tops your lists of suspects.”

“Can’t have suspects in a suicide any more than you can in an accidental death.”

“No-one in this room is under the illusion that this isn’t an active investigation.”

“And why would he put himself at the top of our list? Supposing we have one.”

“Possibly he is aware of the statistical likelihood that, in the event that a white woman is murdered, her black husband will find the finger of blame pointed squarely in his direction.”

“Go on,” said Lestrade. “Tell me it’s racial bias, _if_ we’re looking at him at all. I’ll tell you we can prove he was in her house—the house where she died—three weeks before her death. He was there alone. No lawyer or any other witnesses, though they were going through a divorce.”

“He told me as much.”

“And did he tell you about the insurance policy?”

“He did.”

“Nobody takes out a policy that size unless they think they’ll need it.”

“Who gets the money if Morstan is convicted for his wife’s murder?”

“There’s a cousin.”

“Have you—”

“Of course we have. She’s a naturalist.”

“I take it that’s relevant.”

“She’s spent the last eight months in Ecuador studying the mating habits of flightless birds.”

“Difficult,” Sherlock said, “but not insurmountable.”

“She didn’t know about the insurance money.”

“Neither did Morstan.”

“So he says. Forget the cousin, Sherlock. Forget the whole case.”

“You don’t really think that’s going to work,” Jo said.

“Hope springs eternal, my dear Joanna,” said Sherlock, though from Lestrade’s expression the DI had given up on hope as a mythical beast that bore no relation to any version of reality that included the world’s only consulting detective. “We know you’ve requested a disinterment. How soon can it be done?”

“Possibly never,” Lestrade said. “It’s been held up.”

“How long can it take to get a coroner’s order?” Jo asked, curious.

“It’s not the coroner that’s the problem. It’s the bishop.”

“Buried in hallowed ground, is our Ms. Hammond?” Sherlock asked.

“She is, and that could mean some knotty politics if the C of E decides to be difficult. We’ll get it eventually, but I’ve got instructions not to step on too many toes. This isn’t your game, Sherlock.”

“A second autopsy may not be necessary if you’ll give me access to the files.”

“What, you think the Yard might have managed to gather all the relevant evidence without your help?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said. “Still, you have more than I do just at the moment. Morstan said his wife had taken a pill. What was it?”

“Venlafaxine,” Lestrade said. “You know it?”

“It’s an SNRI,” Jo put in. “Usually used to treat major depression. Was Valerie Hammond depressed?”

“That would be a logical conclusion.”

“Was it an overdose?”

“No. She only took one pill—the prescription had been filled that morning, and we checked how many were left in the bottle.”

“But she took it with alcohol.”

“Only one glass. It was an accident, not a deliberate overdose.”

“The coroner may not have known what to look for,” Sherlock said, “and it may not have been drugs.”

“What ‘it’? There’s no ‘it’, Sherlock. Look, I’ll bring you in on it if we find anything suspicious this time around, but we won’t.”

“And if I find something?”

“There’s nothing to find.”

“But if I do, you’ll give me full access.”

Lestrade looked less than enthusiastic, but it didn’t take him long to bow to inevitability. “If you do, give us a ring.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said with her quick and terrifying smile. “I’ll speak to you soon. Come, Joanna.”

The afternoon had begun with a half-hearted effort at rain before settling for damp and gloomy. Jo zipped her jacket up to the neck and shoved her hands into the pockets, waiting for Sherlock to finish whatever she was doing on her mobile.

“If you wanted to commit suicide,” Sherlock said in a conversational tone, still typing away, “how would you do it?”

“Cyanide,” Jo said.

Most people would have been taken aback at the promptness of the reply. Sherlock just said, “Poison rather than a gun to your temple? How stereotypically feminine of you,” and gave her a look that begged to be challenged.

“It’s really not, if by ‘feminine’ you mean hesitant and likely to fail. A large enough dose can lead to instantaneous unconsciousness and death soon after, and if you know what you’re doing there’s virtually no chance of reversal. Put a bullet in your brain and you might not finish the job. People miss.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Jo really shouldn’t have found that quick confidence flattering, not under the circumstances, but that had been an unmistakable compliment. She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, there’s always the mess to think of.”

“Surely you have ready access to other options. Narcotics, for example.”

Which brought Jo’s mind unpleasantly to the tiny, careful scars that she’d once seen peppering Sherlock’s pale inner arm. She shook her head. “Overdoses can be unpredictable, and there’s the chance someone will catch you in time. Call me old-fashioned, but it’s bitter almonds for me. In gaseous form, given the choice.” It had a classic quality to it, she thought.

Sherlock considered her response for a few paces, then said, “You’re not at all the best person to ask. Medical professionals would have a different perspective on it.”

“I suppose so. What perspective were you looking for?”

“That of a depressed serial adulteress. Though even if that description fit you at all, you wouldn’t, for example, drown yourself in the bathtub. No, I thought not. It’s neither poetic nor efficient, and from her husband’s evidence I would have expected Valerie Hammond to be both.”

“You’re really thinking suicide, just because of the medication?”

“It was an obvious first stop. Whatever Mr. Morstan may believe, the circumstances do not scream ‘Murder Most Foul’. Besides that, she was about to begin a painful divorce, she was in extreme professional difficulty, and she was seeing a psychiatrist.”

“Guesses.”

“Hardly.”

“A GP could have prescribed the venlafaxine. You can’t possibly know she was seeing a psychiatrist.”

“Why can’t I?”

“Because I read the same two pages of the casefile that you did, and they didn’t say anything about that.”

“You also saw the photo of her desk stapled to the second page. Didn’t you look at the planner? It was lying wide open.”

“I didn’t look that closely.”

“You should have done. Two seconds, Joanna, and you’d have known where we’re going now. She had an appointment with a Dr. Felsham two days before her death.” Sherlock waved her mobile under Jo’s nose. “There are three Dr. Felshams practising medicine in the Greater London area. One is a paediatrician, another is a specialist in male sexual disfunction, and the last is a clinical psychiatrist with a practise in the West End.”

“What about the professional difficulty? Morstan didn’t say anything about what she did for a living.”

“He didn’t have to. Almost anyone who hadn’t spent the greater part of the last five years abroad on active military duty would have known.”

“What?”

“Valerie Hammond was an actress.” Sherlock raised her arm to flag a cab. It pulled over to the kerb and sent a splash of dirty rainwater up to speckle Jo’s slacks, missing Sherlock entirely, of course. As they settled into their seats, Sherlock typed something into her mobile and handed it to Jo. It now showed a Wikipedia article. The photograph at the top of the page was of the same woman she’d seen in the autopsy report, but here she was vibrantly, beautifully alive, long auburn curls tumbling over her shoulders and a magnetic smile lighting her face.

She skimmed the article as they alternately sped along the streets and waited in stubborn lines of traffic. “Oh, I know her,” Jo said in surprise. “When Harry had her appendix out a while back, I spent a few days at hers, and all she wanted to do was watch BBC costume dramas. Hammond was Miss Whatsit in that—thing—by Dickens? I’d never have known her name, though.”

“If you hadn’t been sent to Afghanistan, you probably would have. Two years ago she starred in a mindless crime serial that became suddenly and wildly popular, but a few months before her death she was fired over artistic differences.”

“And you know about this because you have a secret passion for network television.”

“I did a bit of research when her death hit the papers. I concluded it was either accident or a very ordinary suicide and not nearly worth my time, but then I didn’t have access to all the evidence.”

“So you were wrong,” Jo said delightedly.

Sherlock gave her a cold look, and Jo held back a laugh. “Data, my dear Joanna. I cannot be expected to work without it.”

“Still, you were wrong.”

“Evidently. Do try not to take so much pleasure in that, it’s not at all attractive.”

“Why did you look into it at all? Sheer sensationalism isn’t usually a draw for you.” Though this was all making a lot more sense, from the fact that a simple accidental death had made the papers and attracted more than two seconds of Sherlock’s notice to the way Scott Morstan had spoken of his wife without feeling the need to fill in her background.

Sherlock said, “I was already familiar with her name. Not, I hardly need add, because of any interest in police procedurals or costume drama, but because Valerie Hammond was also a highly successful and even rather brilliant stage actress, which is why we are going to the Majestic after our interview with Dr. Felsham.”

“You don’t really think a psychiatrist is going to break confidentiality for you? We’re not with the police. We’ve got no official reason at all to be asking questions.”

“The thought had occurred. Do you own a suit?”

“I own a dress uniform.”

Sherlock let out an explosive sigh that contained all the sartorially-pretentious despair in the world. “I suppose there’s no time to go back to Baker Street in any case, if we want to get there during business hours. You’ll have to do. Just try to act a little less fundamentally _decent_ and a little more callous, if you possibly can, and we’ll manage.”

  



	2. The Element of Surmise (Section 2)

What they were managing, it transpired, was to impersonate two agents of the James & Morris Insurance Company. “Chris Hellers,” Sherlock said, smiling professionally at the man behind the front desk. “Insurance investigator. This is my colleague, Ms. Watson. We’re here for Dr. Felsham.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but we won’t take more than a few minutes.”

“Dr. Felsham is booked up this afternoon,” the receptionist said. “If you’d like to make an appointment I’d be happy to arrange one.”

Sherlock was still smiling. It was more than a little unnerving. “Look, I’ll be blunt with you. We’re here an a matter of more money than you could ever hope to see, and we have a deadline. This office has been dragging its heels on responding to our inquiries, and if we have to resort to legal action we will. Now, is Dr. Felsham in?”

The receptionist had blanched at the words “legal action”, and now he turned and disappeared into the back of the offices.

“Are psychiatrists required to share their records with life insurance companies when there’s a suspicion of suicide? I wouldn’t have thought so.”

“I’ve no idea,” Sherlock said. “Does it matter?”

Jo shrugged, then took a moment to study their surroundings. It was clearly a successful practise, based on the location and the tastefully elegant furnishings. Sherlock could probably have told her their annual net income based on the colour of the receptionist’s tie.

He came back a moment later with a dark-haired woman in tow. She was small, nearly as short as Jo, and wore rectangular glasses with an understated sort of suit familiar from a dozen therapy sessions. They must all shop in the same places, Jo thought.

“Ms. Hellers,” she said. It was unimpeachably polite, but something in her tone put Jo on her guard.

Sherlock reached into her pocket and produced the business card she’d taken from Lestrade’s office. “And Ms. Anderson. We’d like to ask a few questions.”

“Regarding?”

“Valerie Hammond.”

One dark eyebrow inched higher. “We’ve been through all this with the police. Surely they have any information you might need.”

“We have questions that weren’t answered in the police reports.”

“For example?”

“The venlafaxine,” Jo put in. Sherlock’s eyes darted in her direction. “Why was it prescribed?”

“Anyone investigating life insurance claims must know the primary indications for Efexor. I don’t blame you for being suspicious. I assume it’s part of your job. On the other hand, people on antidepressants die accidentally every day of the year. You’ll have a terrible time proving it’s related. Why don’t you pay the poor man his money and have done with it?”

Jo pressed on. “Was it her first prescription? If she wasn’t familiar with the side effects—”

“I can’t talk about my patients, Ms. Anderson.”

Sherlock said, “Ah, but she wasn’t your patient, was she?”

A reluctant smile crossed the other woman’s face. “Why do you say that?”

“Because the articles you’ve circled on the contents page of the journal under your arm tell me your primary interests are criminal psychopathology and trauma victims, and two minutes of conversation with you tells me you aren’t the type to concern yourself with the existential angst of entitled serial adulterers.”

“Guesses,” Jo said before she could stop herself.

“Also because Dr. Felsham’s Christian name is Robert.”

“It certainly is,” said the woman who was not Dr. Felsham. “Very well. I misrepresented myself, but wouldn’t you agree that outright dishonesty is much worse? I know you aren’t from James & Morris. I have a card just like that in my desk from the last time Chris Hellers stopped by, and I didn’t let _him_ see Dr. Felsham on that occasion, either. You’ll deal with me or not at all. I am Dr. Ginzberg, one of Robert’s partners. Suppose you extend me the same courtesy and tell me your real names.”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a consulting detective here in the interests of that ‘poor man’.”

“Much better,” Dr. Ginzberg said, “but I’m afraid I still can’t help you. Rules of the profession, you understand.”

“The rules of my profession require me to do everything in my power for my client. Surely you won’t let the privacy of a dead woman stand in the way of an innocent man’s freedom,” Sherlock said, sounding wonderfully earnest for someone who a few hours earlier had told Morstan he wasn’t above suspicion.

Dr. Ginzberg was unimpressed. “Whether you are insurance agents or detectives, my answer is the same. Everything we can give you is already with the police, and Dr. Felsham has already been through quite enough with this case.”

Sherlock pounced. “Was his treatment called into question?”

That was a mistake. Dr. Ginzberg raised her head a little higher, the better to look at Sherlock as though she was the subject of a particularly distasteful experiment, and said, “I’ve told you everything I can. Much as it would give me pleasure to ring security, it would be better for all of us if you would simply leave. Now.”

Sherlock cocked her head to one side. “Is it public record that you married one of your patients?”

The receptionist’s eyes swivelled in their direction.

Sherlock smiled. “I’m sure it was all very above-board, all the paperwork filled out, that sort of thing? And only a former patient, I’m sure.”

There were lines, and someone had to draw them. “Sherlock,” Jo said, and was ignored.

“Are your patients aware of your history? I suppose the real question is which category he occupied,” Sherlock mused, “Trauma victim, or criminal—”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“It’s quite all right, Ms. Watson,” said Ginzberg, whose expression hadn’t changed at all. “You’re very good, aren’t you? I can’t imagine what you mean to accomplish by rattling me. Past indiscretions well-buried in a sea of affadavits are one thing, but violations of patient confidentiality are inexcusable. Please leave now.”

“Sherlock, let’s do as she says,” Jo said, and her friend allowed herself to be steered back toward the door.

“Two things,” Ginzberg said, and they turned to see her watching them from the desk. “One—whatever a person’s mental state at the time, relying on a glass of wine and a small dose of antidepressant to drown oneself in the bathtub is a singularly idiotic way to commit suicide.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock said.

“Two—and I say this for her husband’s sake—you might try her agent. I believe the police did. That’s not in our file, it’s just what I observed during the investigation.”

“That seems reasonable,” said Sherlock. “May we have a name?”

“Claude Kettinger.”

“Thank you,” Jo said. “We won’t take any more of your time.”

The moment they were outside, she hissed, “Was that necessary?”

Sherlock shot her an unconcerned glance. “What in particular?”

“The bit about her husband. Is she a suspect?”

“Not as far as I’m concerned.”

“Was it going to get us more information?”

“It was worth a try.”

“No, Sherlock, it wasn’t. You’d risk destroying a woman’s career over the fact that she wouldn’t bend over backwards to get you what you wanted?”

“Not good?”

“Petty and hurtful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Better to let a murderer go free then cause a little discomfort.”

“That’s not the point.” Sherlock did not ask what the point was. Jo pinched the bridge of her nose, then gave up. “How did you know about it?”

“Her collar, her wrist, and the curious appearance of her wedding ring.”

“She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.”

“That was the curiosity. Come along, Joanna. We’re done here.”

“The Majestic, you said?”

“That’ll keep. They’ve a show on tonight, so they’ll be in late. Better start with the agent.”

A few furious keystrokes found his work address on her phone, and though it was well out of hours by the time they got there Kettering was also working late. He was no Ginzberg, and it didn’t take long for Sherlock to talk their way into his very plush office. He was a good-looking man a few years older than Jo, which would have been irrelevant if Sherlock hadn’t abandoned her in favour of studying the furnishings. As it was, Jo had to take the lead, and she spent the whole interview trying not to fixate on the stretch of his shoulders against expensive cotton or the pleasant curve of muscle under the bum of his trousers. God help her.

“So, er, you say she wasn’t depressed during the separation?”

“Not that I noticed,” Kettinger said. “She wasn’t happy, mind you, but I’ve dealt with angst-ridden actors before. That wasn’t Val.”

Sherlock had discovered a mound of magazines and was flipping through them intently. Jo glanced at her, then turned back in time to see Kettinger stretch back in his chair in a way that made his dedication to exercise quite obvious. She dragged her mind back on track. “Was she still out of work?”

“No, she was in rehearsals,” he said. “She’d been tapped for _Hamlet_.”

“As Gertrude or Ophelia?” _Alas, then, she is drown’d…_.

“Neither,” he said. “As Hamlet. It was all very Sarah Bernhardt. She liked it.” He flashed a smile Jo couldn’t help but return.

“I suppose that explains her hair.”

“Yes, dreadful shame they made her cut it all off. It was her trademark.”

“Did you know her husband?”

“Not well. They met just before I took her on. I went to the wedding. Nice enough chap, I suppose.”

“Was it an angry divorce?”

Kettinger shook his head. “I’ve seen worse. They were tired, you know, not angry.” That at least fit with Morstan’s story. “Is he a suspect?”

“We’re exploring all the possibilities,” Sherlock said, not looking up from the magazines. Jo saw Valerie Hammond’s face staring up at her from each of them. Sherlock paused at one of the photos. “When did she cut her hair?”

Kettinger had to think. “Not long before she died. Two or three weeks? They were already in rehearsals.”

“Do you know who they got to fill the role?” Jo asked, but Sherlock rode right over her.

“Two or three weeks,” she said. “You’re certain? When was this taken?” She held up one of the photo spreads, this one showing Hammond seated at a spotless kitchen counter, framed against a spice rack and a sunny window. It was surprisingly domestic. Her hair was shorn into the pageboy Jo had seen in the file at Scotland Yard.

“About the same time,” Kettinger said. “That was her last interview.”

“They did the photo shoot in her home. Was that unusual?”

“Yes, but they weren’t going for one of the usual spreads. We were trying to bring the focus back to her theatrical career, get away from the television, that sort of thing. They wanted a different tone.”

“She didn’t mind opening her home to reporters, then.”

“Usually she would have. She was private, you know. But this was important enough that when the magazine suggested it, we made an exception.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said. She waved the magazine. “May I?”

“I suppose so,” Kettinger said, confused. “But don’t you want—”

“No. Joanna?”

“You’ve been very helpful,” Jo said over her shoulder, then trailed after Sherlock into the cold night air.

It was later than she’d realised. Her stomach gave a hopeful growl.

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked. Jo looked at her, surprised.

“I am. But you don’t want to eat.”

“No, but we have at least an hour before we need to leave for the Majestic.”

“It’s not that far.”

“Not by cab, no.”

“And we’re…not taking a cab.”

“Cabs cost money.”

“Something you always seem to forget. Wait, Sherlock. Are we _completely_ out of funds?”

Sherlock thought about it. “I have a fiver in my coat pocket, and you’ve got a little more in yours.”

“No, I haven’t. Five pounds, is that really all?”

“Yes, you have. You left it in the inner pocket last week and haven’t touched it since. That ought to get you a decent dinner and some coffee tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you for thinking of my stomach, but I’m more concerned about other things.”

“Don’t be. You still have money in your account. I checked yesterday.”

“How did you—never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“I’d have suggested you withdraw some of it for this case, but I thought you might object.”

“You thought right,” Jo said. “We could take the Tube. It’s faster than driving, you know.”

“I hate the Tube.”

“You’ve gone there on cases.”

“When I had reason. It’s all people jostling around, and sometimes there’s _touching_.” She shuddered.

Jo rolled her eyes. “Or we could walk, but in that case I’m definitely going to need food.”

The nice thing about eating out with Sherlock was that she could find a restaurant for any budget. Jo filled up on steaming hot falafel and tried to talk about the case, but Sherlock was still reading the magazine and wasn’t giving anything away just yet.

“You’re not worried?” she asked. “There’s nothing to go on.”

“Nothing?” Sherlock said. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I wanted to ask Kettinger who they’ve got for Hamlet. I thought you might ask, too. Professional jealousy’s more interesting than money.”

“Wrong direction.”

“Well, I’m still going to find out,” Jo said. “Why would anyone cast a woman as Hamlet? Some sort of publicity stunt?” Sherlock ignored her in favour of the magazine article, which must have been fascinating. “I’m just saying, it seems a little forced.”

“Much as I would love to discuss the role of women in the arts, there are more pressing matters to take our attention. Are you done eating?”

They hung about the back of the theatre like fans waiting for an actor’s autograph, but Sherlock made for the company’s artistic director instead. The woman was tired, but she woke up a bit at the mention of Hammond and _Hamlet_.

“Irene Adler,” she said, “that’s who we’ve got. Had to fly in an American for Hamlet, would you believe that?”

“Did she ask for the role?” Jo wanted to know.

“No, we had to chase her down. It opens in two weeks. Tickets are on sale, you should come.” Sherlock had no interest in this avenue of inquiry, and she followed up with questions about Hammond’s other professional connections. One of them led to a bit of impromptu housebreaking a few miles east (they walked), but it all came to nothing when Sherlock noticed a telltale stain on the entryway carpet. This proved the man’s innocence through some convoluted chain of reasoning involving his shoe size and the colour of Hammond’s kitchen tile.

“So much for that,” Jo said, sliding down the last few feet of the fire escape. “At least we weren’t arrested.”

“It was a promising lead,” Sherlock said. “I wanted to eliminate it first.”

“What now?”

“Now you may have some coffee.”

“It’s five in the morning.”

“There’s an 24-hour cafe just down the street. I’ll meet you there at eight. Don’t bother going home, you’ll just try to sleep and then I’ll have to wake you up again.”

“Where are you going? Sherlock—” But she was already loping down the street, and Jo’s feet hurt too much to run for anything less than mortal danger. She stood there stupidly for a few minutes, blinking against the cold and the exhaustion, and then she decided coffee was as good a plan as any.

She nodded off over her second cup, and Sherlock had to wake her up after all. She did this by throwing down a stack of papers onto the table right by Jo’s nose. Jo jerked back into consciousness with a start.

“What is this?” she asked once she could see straight.

“A copy of Valerie Hammond’s psychiatric file.”

“You broke in,” Jo said, resigned. Then, with a prick of indignation, “You broke in without me?”

“Burglary is easier for one,” Sherlock said, “and you’re less useful when you’re in the middle of a moral crisis. For whatever reason, you seem to have put housebreaking and the theft of medical records in two separate categories.”

“For excellent reasons, Sherlock.”

“I’m sure. Have a look.” Jo frowned. Sherlock leaned over the table, the better to pin her down. “I’ve already read most of it. What harm could it do?”

“I’m not a psychiatrist.”

“But you’re required to have some training. I want your opinion.”

“No.”

“Joanna,” Sherlock said, “I want your opinion.”

Jo stared down at the file, then back up at Sherlock’s intent expression, and then she gave up. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Get me some more coffee.”

It was interesting reading, and by the third page her conscience had stopped pricking so badly. Jo couldn’t help thinking Hammond would have been a fascinating woman to know. Like Morstan had said, she had been deeply methodical, but a passionate nature also came through in Felsham’s notes. She was a study in contradictions. “Two suicide attempts before she was married,” Jo said at one point.

“Would you call them that?”

“All right, two occasions on which she intended to commit suicide. Interesting that such a strong-willed person would balk at carrying it out.”

“Don’t underestimate the human instinct for self-preservation.”

“Yes…who are you texting?”

“Lestrade. I want him to look up Ted Wilkins.”

“Who’s that? Is he in here?”

“No. Keep reading.”

Sherlock snagged Jo’s card to take out cash and buy her breakfast. For Sherlock, this was profound consideration, so Jo decided not to complain, though she was down to the last few pounds in her account. “Well?” Sherlock asked as Jo dug into her beans.

“Well,” Jo said, “she might not have been depressed.”

“That’s your opinion?”

“For what it’s worth. That’s what Dr. Ginzberg thought, at any rate. He had her consult once or twice. Did you see the notes?”

“I did. She said she didn’t believe Hammond was taking her medication.”

Jo paused with the fork halfway to her mouth, unsure whether Sherlock meant that to be pointed. It was impossible to tell. “Felsham went on prescribing it. His treatment plan is very by-the-book, and Hammond seemed to be responding.”

“Seemed to be?”

“As I said, I don’t think she was depressed, not in the clinical sense of the term. She decided that death was the easier option and twice attempted to act on that belief. I’m not saying I agree with her, but I don’t think it was the result of a mood disorder.”

“And her apparent improvement in the last months of her life?”

“She was an actress,” Jo pointed out. “She decided she’d had enough of Felsham’s attempts to cure an illness she didn’t have, and it seemed easier to play along. She got rid of the pills, though. There was one missing from the bottle when they found her.”

“She’d have discarded them one by one, the better to keep up the illusion. Remember how methodical she was. Of course, an accident is harder to believe if all she took was the wine.”

“So you think it was suicide.”

“I think it was murder.”

“Why?”

Sherlock took out the magazine she’d folded into her coat, opened it to the first page of Hammond’s photos, and pointed at the byline.

“ ‘Photos by Ted Wilkins’,” Jo read. “That’s not a lot to go on.”

“It may be everything we need. Her agent said it was unusual for Hammond to give interviews at home. You don’t really think it’s a coincidence that she died mere weeks after this happened.”

“Why would a magazine photographer want her dead?”

“Give me a moment.” She dialed a number, and while she waited for the connection she took several slow breaths. In a moment she looked close to tears, but she held up one hand to forestall Jo’s anxious curiosity. Playing a part, then. She covered the receiver and spoke in her usual, which was to say dictatorial, tone. “Joanna, call Lestrade and see if he’s found anything on Wilkins.”

“Not your secretary,” Jo said, but she was already reaching for her mobile. While she waited for the connection, it occurred to her to wonder how many people kept New Scotland Yard on speed dial.

Lestrade answered on the third ring. He sounded distracted.

“It’s Jo Watson. Did you get Sherlock’s text?”

“I did. Wilkins has a record: two instances of drink driving and a few of small-time burglary, that sort of thing. He’s been clean for three years. He was a person of interest in a murder investigation last January, but nothing came of it. What’s the connection?”

“Photos in a magazine spread. It was published a few days before she died. Have you got an address?”

“We do. Sherlock thinks he was involved?”

“Yes.”

Jo could almost hear the scales wavering, then tipping. “All right,” Lestrade said. “I’m following up another lead, and no, you may not have his address in the meantime. We’ll be by to get you at half one.”

“Tell him to meet us there,” Sherlock called, finishing her own conversation and snatching up her coat.

Lestrade was having none of it. “Absolutely not. You will wait at Baker Street until—” But Sherlock was already at the cafe door, so Jo muttered a hasty good-bye and hung up.

“I called the magazine,” Sherlock explained in the cab, stuffing the article and the psychiatric file both into the voluminous inner pockets of her coat. “The very pleasant woman from Accounts Payable was happy to give me Wilkins’ address.”

“Who were you, the worried sister?”

“Pregnant ex-girlfriend. He’d done work for them once or twice before. She also said the records for services rendered mention a date two weeks before Hammond’s death. What did Lestrade have on him?”

“Nothing noteworthy, but he’s come up in connection with at least one other murder.”

“As I thought.”

“How could you possibly—”

“He wasn’t charged?”

“No.”

“He wouldn’t have been.”

“But why would he have killed Valerie Hammond? Was he a crazed fan, or—”

“Of course not. He wasn’t our murderer.”

“Then who was?”

“All in good time, Joanna.” And she wouldn’t say another word on the subject.

Wilkins’ address led them to a long row of housing on a quiet street in Finchley. They paid with the very last money Jo had, and she tried not to think about what would happen if Lestrade didn’t show. It was the middle of the work day, and there was nobody about. Jo gave the front door a dubious look as they approached. The windows were dark, and the drive was empty of cars. The only sign of life on the whole block was a bicycle leaning against the neighbour’s porch.

“You don’t suppose he’ll be here, do you?” she asked.

“That remains to be seen.” Sherlock rapped sharply on the door. They waited for a long moment, and gave it a few more hard knocks before reaching into one pocket for what was obviously a set of lock-picks.

Jo thought she should probably register some form of protest. “Sherlock, Lestrade is on his way. If you break in he’ll know it.”

“Judging by traffic this time of day, it should take him at least twenty minutes more to get here even if he left the moment you hung up. We have time, and Lestrade doesn’t have enough for a search warrant. Have you brought your sidearm?”

“Yes.” She’d been carrying it all over London, but given the amount of criminal activity they’d engaged in during the past twenty-four hours this seemed tame by comparison.

“Up for a little armed trespassing in the interest of justice?”

Jo put a hand back to check that her Browning was secure in its holster. There was something to be said for bulky and unflattering jackets. “If we get arrested for this, I’ll ring Mycroft to post our bail.”

“That won’t be necessary. A moment, if you please.”

Sherlock picked the front door with alarming proficiency. “No bolt,” she said, as though this was a personal affront. “There’s nothing more disappointing than criminal incompetence, Joanna.”

The door opened onto a narrow hall that skirted around a stairway before leading them into the kitchen. Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail and probably reconstructing Wilkins’ activities for the last week and a half based on the unwashed dishes in the sink and the overflowing bin near the back door. “What are we looking for?” Jo asked.

“The darkroom, if he has one, or backups of digital photography. Failing that, bank statements, address books, anything of that sort. He’s been in communication with our murderer.”

“How can you tell?”

“Think, Joanna. If you wanted to murder a woman in her own home and if you had absolutely no margin for error, where would you start?”

“I’ve never given it much thought.”

Sherlock made an impatient sound. “Research. The collection of data. Our killer needed to know the layout of the house, and he needed to know some of the details of Valerie Hammond’s daily routine.”

“So he sent a magazine photographer?”

“What better excuse? Hammond was a careful woman. She wouldn’t have let anyone into her home without a valid reason. Arrange an interview with a more-or-less reputable publication and you can pry with impunity.”

“Why would the photographer let them publish the photos afterward, though?”

“Because he’s an idiot. Ah, here we are.” She’d found a side room off the kitchen filled with what Jo assumed was photography equipment. “If he’s any sense, he won’t have kept the negatives. If he’s as dull-witted as I suspect, they may just be here.”

“Right,” Jo said, eyeing the unlabelled bins stacked along the walls. “Have fun. I’m going to check upstairs.”

She was puttering about in his bedside cabinet, trying to determine whether the stash of uninspired pornography was the fruit of Wilkins’ own artistic labour, when she heard a the heavy scrape of a large object being moved. It was followed by a rattling slam that could only have been the screened back door off the kitchen.

“Sherlock?” she called in alarm.

“Cover the front!” Sherlock shouted. Her voice was muffled, and Jo gathered from the determined scraping sounds that she’d been shut in the darkroom with something heavy blocking the door.

Jo moved for the stairs, but before she’d made it halfway there she remembered seeing the bicycle propped up against the house next door.

“Damn it,” she muttered. There would be no time for the stairs. Then again, there _was_ an open window, not to mention a convenient bit of roof underneath.

Jo stuck her head and shoulders out in time to see a man in a faded blue jacket pulling the bicycle upright. Something must have caught his eye, because he glanced up, saw her there, and threw one leg over the seat.

She didn’t think. There wasn’t time to think until she’d hurled herself out the window and taken two long strides across the overhang and one flying leap off the roof, and then as the ground came rushing up there was just time for her to think “Oh well _done_ , Jo,” in a voice that sounded an awful lot like Harry at her most scathingly sarcastic. Then she made contact with a moving body rather than the ground, and she thought, “Well done, Joanna,” in a voice that was definitely not Harry’s. They hit the hard ground together, the man in the blue jacket breaking the worst of her fall, but that didn’t stop her vision going all grey and fuzzy.

She still made it to her feet before he did.

“Get down,” she said. The Browning was in her hands by the time the pain hit, the cool metal an anchor against the sickening wave of wrong that rolled off her offended nerves. She sucked in a breath and hoped that rib wasn’t broken. “Back on the ground. Leave your hands where they are.”

He hadn’t even made it as far as his knees. After rolling his eyes up to verify that, yes, that was in fact a gun in her hands, he sank back down so quickly she thought he must be just a little relieved to have the excuse.

Sherlock appeared mere seconds later, lean and panther-footed, and ground to a halt at Jo’s side. Far from being irritated at being caught off guard, she was bright-eyed with anticipation, pleased and even just a little impressed. That shouldn’t have felt nearly as good as it did. The back wheel of the bicycle on the pavement spun lazily, and the taste of blood oozing from Jo’s split lip was the best thing in the world.

“Lestrade just sent a text. He’s on his way,” Sherlock said, slipping her mobile into her pocket. “We have five minutes.” She bent over the man on the ground, grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, and flipped him over with brutal competence. “I’d rather do this without resorting to such inelegant methods,” she said, “but we’re a little short on time. Tell us everything you know about Valerie Hammond.”

“I didn’t kill her,” he said immediately. “I was in Manchester that whole weekend. There are witnesses.”

“A word of advice,” said Sherlock. “A man trying to prove his innocence would do well not to bring up a cast-iron alibi as though it was the first thing on his mind. What do you know about her death?”

His eyes were blown wide, and they flinched away from Sherlock to settle more hopefully on Jo. She responded by flicking her safety off.

“All right,” he said. “All right! I was hired to canvas the house, get photographs, that sort of thing. Easiest thing in the world, and I got a cool fifteen hundred out of it, plus what the magazine would pay. It wasn’t even illegal.”

“Debatable,” Sherlock said, “and you might have questioned your involvement once her death became public, but whether you can be prosecuted as an accessory is none of my concern. Who paid you?”

“I don’t know. No, really, I don’t. I got an email two days before the interview. I sent the photos and notes back to the same address, and the money was in my account the very next day.” It was amazing, Jo thought, the way some people would open up if you shoved a pistol in their face.

“What was the address?”

“Hell if I remember. It’ll be in my deleted mail, but you’ll need a warrant.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“It won’t do you any good,” Wilkins said. “They’re not stupid.”

“Who? But you don’t know. How did you get in touch with this person?”

“Word gets around,” he said. “I don’t know who gave them my name. They’re not much for small talk.”

“You’ve done business with them before.”

“Yeah, once or twice.”

“Were they the ones who tipped you off today? Oh, come now, you were clearly expecting us.”

“Don’t know that, either. I got a call a few hours ago, just said there was an investigation and my name had come up. I wasn’t going to sit around and be taken in.”

“Was it a man or a woman on the phone?”

“A man. I didn’t recognise the voice.”

“When you went to Valerie Hammond’s home, did you get photos of the bath?”

Wilkins’ face screwed up in confusion. It _was_ a mad question to ask, taken out of context. Before he could answer, Sherlock’s head snapped up, and half a second later a familiar dark car came from around the corner. “The cavalry,” Sherlock informed Wilkins. “Too late to be of any real use, as usual. You’re about to be arrested.”

Jo had her gun strapped back under her jacket by then, and she was quite sure the car hadn’t been close enough for anyone to see it. She could only hope it wouldn’t occur to Wilkins that she might not have it legally.

Lestrade joined them moments later. He took his time looking over the scene, taking in everything from the blood on Jo’s lip to the bicycle on the ground.

“Detective Inspector,” Jo said, giving him her best smile.

“Dr. Watson,” he replied, grimly, as Sergeant Donovan got out of the passenger’s seat to join them. She looked about as amused as he did, which was to say not at all.

“How good of you to join us,” Sherlock said. “Lestrade, this man has just admitted his involvement in Valerie Hammond’s death.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Wilkins protested yet again.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “He was paid to take photographs of the victim’s home. The ostensible purpose was a portrait for a magazine article on her theatrical career, but they also assisted the murderer in planning his crime. He’s just confessed as much.”

“I don’t suppose you got a name out of him.”

“Not yet. You may be able to get something useful from his email and account number, but I doubt it. He doesn’t know anything about the people who employed him. Start with that other murder case. He’s been hired for others; work out which ones and you may be able to connect them to her killer.”

“You want _us_ to do that?” Lestrade asked. “I thought you wanted in on this.”

“Paperwork,” Sherlock said, her lip curling in distaste. “And all very mundane. Hardly worth my time.”

“Right,” Donovan said, giving Sherlock her best scornful-yet-disbelieving look. “You thought the photographer was worth your time, but you’ll leave the actual murderer to us?”

“The physical act of the murder is beside the point.”

“Not to us!”

“Sherlock,” Jo said, “I don’t suppose you’d care to fill us in on what you know.”

“This man was hired to canvas Hammond’s home before the murder. Doesn’t that suggest anything to you?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Planning, I suppose. It was premeditated.”

“That, certainly, but you can do better.”

The DI frowned, and Jo racked her brain for the answer. All she could think of was basic training: “Know the territory”, she’d heard time and time again, and in the field it had proved one of the most valuable lessons she’d had. “Training,” she said at last. “He was trained.”

“A trained _killer_?” Lestrade asked, incredulous. “What are you getting at?”

“Murder for hire,” Sherlock said, her satisfaction evident. “Not my usual fare at all.”

Jo let out something that started as a stunned laugh until pain stabbed through her side and it died a premature death.

Lestrade frowned at her. “What happened to you? Did he—” He was glaring at Wilkins, and Joanna choked down on the giggle rising in her throat.

“No,” she said. Even Sherlock was staring at her. She could feel a grin stretching across her face, cracking her lip a little wider. Her ribs hurt something fantastic. “I fell off a roof.”

Lestrade’s eyes jerked up to the overhang above their heads, then back to Jo, then finally down at Wilkins. She could see him mouthing it, _fell off a roof_. She held back the giggle with difficulty and turned to Sherlock for a distraction. “A murder for hire, you said, but who did the hiring?”

“That’s a more complicated question. Start with Wilkins, Lestrade. He’ll lead you to the ‘actual murderer’, if that’s what concerns you.” Sherlock shot Jo an assessing look that was just a little too clinical to be actually concerned, and then she turned and set off down the street, her coat billowing behind her.

Wilkins shivered theatrically and sent Lestrade a chummy sort of wink. “That’s what they call frigid, yeah?”

Lestrade gave him a look that redefined “frigid”, and Joanna was reminded of why she liked him so much. “Sergeant Donovan,” he said, “be so good as to explain Mr. Wilkins’ rights. I need a moment with Dr. Watson.”

Donovan took to the job with evident relish. As she was snapping a pair of cuffs around Wilkins’ wrists, Lestrade turned to Jo. She was reminded forcibly of every dressing-down she’d ever had from a superior officer, and her spine went ramrod straight with uncomfortable anticipation.

Lestrade just sighed. “Are you all right?”

“Well enough. I should probably get cleaned up.”

“You should probably have someone look at those ribs, while you’re at it. Dr. Watson—Joanna—” It was a liberty, but not one she found she minded. “I admit I was a bit relieved when Sherlock started bringing you along on cases. I thought you might steady her. I won’t say she’s more trouble than she’s worth, but she does like to run off on her own. I like to know what my people are doing.”

“You consider Sherlock one of your people?”

“I’ve long since given up on classifying Sherlock. But yes, when she’s at my crime scenes, she’s one of mine. I don’t think I need to lecture you on responsibility, Dr. Watson.”

“You do not.” It took some effort not to tack a ‘sir’ onto the end of that.

“You’re both civilians. Have you considered the liability involved in all this?”

“I think Sherlock’s proven herself more of an asset than a liability.”

“I’m just saying, for God’s sake be careful.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You fell off a bloody _roof_.”

“More or less,” Jo said. She was grinning again, and she could tell it unnerved him. “But I’m fine, and I can take care of myself.”

“And Sherlock?”

“I can take care of her, too,” she said without thought, because of course she could.

“I meant,” he said, “do you think there’s any chance you can convince her to try and avoid these situations in future?” Jo just looked at him, and he shook his head. “Worth a try. Can we give you a ride?”

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. “If you don’t mind.”

“You’ll have to share the back with Wilkins.”

“I think he’ll behave himself.” So long as he didn’t bring up the Browning, she didn’t mind at all, though judging by Sally Donovan’s raised eyebrow they were already flouting about a dozen regulations.

“Back to the Yard?” Lestrade asked as they pulled out into the street. Wilkins was huddled in his seat in an effort to preserve the space between them.

“Better be the nearest A&E,” Donovan said.

“I’m fine,” Jo insisted.

“It hurts just to look at you.”

She prodded her ribs with some care. “There’s a walk-in surgery near the flat. Mind dropping me there?”

This was acceptable. Jo ignored Donovan’s dark look, thanked them, and went in to stand at the front desk.

There was a wait, but by now she was feeling the ribs enough to think an x-ray and something prescription-strength would not go amiss. She cleaned up a bit in the loo, and by the time she was shown to an examination room her lip had stopped bleeding.

“What happened?” asked the GP, a straightforward woman whose air Jo found immediately appealing. The time in reception had given her the chance to cobble together a story about an ill-advised attempt to fix her satellite receiver and the resulting tumble into a flowerbed.

“Lucky the hedges are so full this year,” she said.

Dr. Sawyer gave her a sceptical frown. “Let’s have a look, then.” There followed some highly uncomfortable prodding about her abdomen, the conclusion of which was that she didn’t seem to have broken everything, but an x-ray seemed advisable.

“There’s a bit of a wait, but the procedure itself won’t take long,” Dr. Sawyer said. “May I?” She turned Jo’s head to the side, the better to examine her split lip. “You’ll do without stitches. You said it was your boyfriend’s satellite?”

“No, it was mine. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I see. Were you alone at the time?”

This didn’t seem relevant to whether or not her ribs were intact. “Yes. Stupid, I know.”

The doctor gave her a sympathetic smile. “Maybe something to avoid in future. You know, Ms. Watson, we do have resources here.” When Jo looked at her blankly, she reached for the drawer under the examination gloves and pulled out a pamphlet.

“Oh!” Jo said. “No, you’ve got it all wrong. I mean, thank you, I do appreciate it, but it really was my own fault.”

“Domestic problems are more common than you might expect,” she said in a tone that Jo herself had spent years practising. “If you just want to take this with you—”

“I know it sounds mad, but it was an accident.”

The other woman took a moment to size Jo up. “You didn’t ring for an ambulance.”

“I didn’t need one.”

“You have older injuries.”

“I was RAMC. They came with the job.”

“You’re a soldier?”

“Doctor, too.”

“And you fix satellite dishes.”

“Not very well.”

Dr. Sawyer laughed, her solemnity dissolving. “All right, then, let’s get you that x-ray. There’ll be a wait. We’re short-handed this week.”

Jo’s ears perked up. “Are you really?”

All in all, it was not the most promising lead-in to a job interview she’d ever had, but Dr. Sawyer was Sarah by the time Jo left the surgery with a prescription for a mild opiate and a mental note to update her CV before next week.

She considered filling the prescription, but Sherlock hadn’t responded to either of the texts she’d sent from the waiting room, so it seemed advisable to hurry home. 


	3. The Element of Surmise (Section 3)

The flat was quiet when she came in. Jo found Sherlock stretched on the couch in a now-familiar pose, one sleeve rolled up to expose a length of pale skin broken by the sheen of plastic.

“What took you so long?” Sherlock asked without opening her eyes.

“Sorry,” Jo said. “I’d have followed you right home, but Sergeant Donovan thought I should probably be checked for internal bleeding.”

Sherlock blinked up at her. “You’re fine,” she said.

“I am, actually. Thanks for the concern. Glad to have helped.”

“Yes, that was very nice,” Sherlock said, to Jo’s shock. “You’re a convenient person to have on a foot chase.”

“Especially when you’ve been locked in a darkroom,” Jo agreed.

“Indeed.”

“Why did you text?”

Sherlock settled deeper into the cushions. “I think the milk’s gone off.”

Of course it had. She’d left it sitting right next to the radiator, idiot that she was, and they’d been out since Morstan had been there. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Now go away.”

“Are you eating today?”

Sherlock let out a little huff of disdain, which Jo probably deserved for asking such an obvious question. She went to check the milk, which was sour, and then collapsed in the bath. It felt a bit morbid under the circumstances, but the hot water was heaven on her sore body.

She decided to allow herself a few hours of sleep and woke to the ring of Harry’s phone in the fading light of an early dusk. The moment she reached to answer she wished she hadn’t bothered—her ribs felt like they were cased in concrete—but she was wide awake now. Soldiers’ habits die hard.

“Jo Watson,” she said.

“Joanna,” said a familiar voice. “This is Ella Thompson. Do you have a moment?”

This was exquisitely bad timing, but Jo decided to go with it. “I do. Since you’ve rung, I wanted to talk to you about my next appointment.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel. I’m very sorry.”

“That’s all right, actually. I was going to say—” But Dr. Thompson rode right over her, which she’d never done before. She sounded uncomfortable.

“I apologise for the short notice, and I understand the inconvenience this will cause you, but I’m in the process of letting go of my practice.”

“Oh,” Jo said, taken aback. “I see. I hope everything’s all right?”

“Yes, thank you; I’ve been offered a research position in Edinburgh, and I’ve decided to take it.”

“It must be an exciting position if you’re moving up there so quickly.”

“It is. I’ll have the opportunity to do a great deal of good, I think. It’s work I’ve been considering for years, and they’ve been offered some very generous funding.” She was clearly trying not to sound too keen and doing a very bad job of it. It might have been unprofessional, but Jo liked her far more in that moment than she had in any of their sessions. “Due to some requirements of the bequest, though, they’ve had to set a very strict timeline. I wish I could give you more warning than this, but I’m doing everything I can to make the transition easy on my patients.”

It was a much better solution than Jo could have hoped for. “No, that’s fine. In fact—”

“I’ve spoken to a number of my colleagues. They’re all very competent, and I feel quite comfortable entrusting them with my practise.”

“I’m sure. But—”

“I’d like to help you choose one personally, if I may. Is there an area of town you’d find most convenient?”

 _It would be most convenient by far if you’d just let me drop the whole thing_ , Jo thought. She pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose and stalled. “What are my options?”

“I’ve narrowed it down to three who I think would be most helpful in your case. There’s Dr. Reynolds in Soho. He does excellent work with veterans. Then there’s Dr. Sonia Ginzberg, on Whitcomb.”

“Dr. Ginzberg?”

“You know her? She’s very well regarded.”

“I’ve met her.” She’d left quite an impression, mostly because she’d handled Sherlock so well. Surely she was the sort Jo could reason with. “You’re sure she has openings?”

“I am. Shall I have her office ring you to confirm an appointment?”

“Yes, please do.”

“I’m glad you’re taking this so well. I do think you’ve made significant progress, Joanna, and I’m certain Dr. Ginzberg will be able to help you take your next steps.”

“Mmm,” Jo said, and continued to make the appropriate noises for the rest of their thankfully short conversation. _Well_ , she thought as she hung up, _this may turn out for the best._

She went back downstairs to find Sherlock in the same position on the couch. “Worked it out yet?”

“Ages ago,” Sherlock said.

“Wait, what? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I had to be sure. I’ve spent the last several hours considering the other possibilities. None of them account for everything: the insurance policy, the money she needed to borrow, the manner of her death. It’s the only reasonable explanation.”

“Was it Morstan?” Her gut gave a little tremor of discomfort, but it had to be asked.

Sherlock laughed, a low and very pleased sound, and Jo relaxed. “No.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Details.”

“Not to Scotland Yard.”

“They’ll prove it themselves. It’ll be a small matter of bank accounts once they’ve laid hands on the man who did it.” She stretched, each impossible limb extended as far as it could go. Then she relaxed, looking for all the world like a badly housebroken cat. “Hand me your phone.”

“To text Lestrade?”

“To text our client.”

“Oh,” Jo said, “Right. Look, Sherlock, will you let me handle this part?” Sherlock made an impatient face, but Jo wasn’t about to back down. “No, I mean that. You’re about to tell the poor man who was responsible for the death of his wife. It needs to be handled gently.”

“And you think you’re the one to do it. Infatuation is so very tedious, Joanna.”

She’d been hoping Sherlock wouldn’t have noticed. So much for that. “This has nothing to do with me. You can give all the explanations if you like. Just let me do the talking to begin with. I promise to make you look brilliant, but I want to make it easy on him if I can.”

Sherlock huffed a bit, but she dropped the hand she’d held out for the phone. “Very well.”

“All right. I’ll ring him, but first you had better tell me who did it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flared with satisfaction. “Valerie Hammond.”

“A suicide, after all that? Wilkins was just a coincidence?”

“No. The killer, whoever he was, broke into Hammond’s home and waited for her to drink her evening glass of wine, then surprised her in the kitchen. I imagine he sedated her. There are any manner of drugs that would have been overlooked in a pro forma toxicology report. Then he drew the bath and prepared the scene with the venlafaxine.”

“All that I can follow. But you said—”

“Who had a reason to want Valerie Hammond dead? Morstan, of course. Her cousin, but only if Morstan took the blame for the crime, and she’s been in Ecuador since Hammond’s death. It could be an ex lover. Or—”

“Or Valerie Hammond herself,” Jo said. Things began to fall into place.

“We know she’d attempted it twice before but found herself unable to follow through. We know she was a practical woman. If you wanted something that badly, Joanna, and if you knew you couldn’t do itself, wouldn’t it occur to you to hire someone to do it for you?”

“Suicide by assassin?”

“An elegant solution. It explains everything.” She rubbed her hands together. “Do ring Mr. Morstan. I can tell him exactly how it happened.”

Jo stared down at the phone. “I think this sort of news is better delivered in person.”

Sherlock gave her a dubious look. “You don’t really suppose news of his wife’s suicide will put him in an amorous frame of mind?”

Jo couldn’t find it in herself to be offended. She was suddenly very tired. “That’s not the point, Sherlock. This is going to be painful.”

“Then we’d better get it over with.” She held out a hand. “Your phone, Joanna.”

********

Scott Morstan arrived an hour later. He was tense from the moment Jo opened the door, and the sight of her face didn’t help matters. She must look worse than she’d thought.

“What happened?” he asked after accepting the offer of tea.

“Run-in with a suspect,” Sherlock said. She, of course, looked impeccable in her pressed and fitted suit, not at all as though she’d had a bad meeting with a bicycle and some concrete.

“On my case?” He looked almost comically horrified. “Dr. Watson, I didn’t—”

“I assure you that Dr. Watson is capable of handling herself in far more dangerous situations. That’s not why we’re here.”

His eyes followed Jo’s stiff movements as she brought him the tea. When she was seated, he turned his attention back to Sherlock. “Why are we here?”

“We have answers for you,” Jo said.

“So soon?”

“I don’t waste time,” Sherlock said, as though the police had been four months on this case because of a lack of industry.

Jo cut in. “We don’t have hard proof, but we’re very confident. Sherlock has a solution to present to DI Lestrade, and we think he’ll be willing to listen. It fits all the evidence.”

“What Joanna means to say is that this is the only reasonable explanation.”

“All right,” Morstan said. He hadn’t touched his tea. “Tell me.”

True to her word, Sherlock waited for Jo to begin. There was no easy way to go about this. “Did you know your wife had tried to take her own life before you married?”

“Tried is a strong word,” Morstan said. “She never came close. She said she couldn’t. If you think she lay in the bath herself and waited, I can’t believe that.”

“No,” Jo said. “I’m very sorry, but we think she knew she couldn’t carry it out, so she found someone else to do it. We think she hired a hitman and gave him her own name.” Morstan recoiled, and Jo had to stop herself reaching for his hand. Ridiculous, this sudden protectiveness for a man she hardly knew. “That’s why she needed the six thousand pounds.”

“Hired killings are far from common,” Sherlock said, “and they’re even farther from cheap. It would have cost much more than that, and no doubt she came up short.”

“You’re saying I lent her the money to pay for her own murder.”

“You might consider it a kindness,” Sherlock said, in what was no doubt meant to be an encouraging tone.

“A _kindness_?”

“It was what she wanted.”

“Mr. Morstan,” Jo said, “you can’t blame yourself. She made her own decision. You’d been separated for months.”

“No,” he said. “No, it doesn’t make sense. How would she have found someone to do that? Here, in London?”

“You’d be surprised what you can pay people to do if you can offer sufficient incentive,” Sherlock said. “I could tell you stories—”

“Sherlock,” Jo said repressively.

Morstan shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Val was too careful for that. She’d have found some other way to do it herself.”

“She hired someone precisely because she _was_ that careful,” Sherlock said. “She wanted a quick, professional job, and above all she didn’t want it to look like a suicide. She wouldn’t have told even the man she hired that his client and his victim were one and the same. You’re forgetting the insurance policy.”

“What about it?”

“It was a gift,” Jo said.

“Or an apology,” Sherlock said. “Nothing says ‘I’m sorry for ruining our marriage’ like ten million pounds.”

Morstan sat back in his chair. Jo winced and tried to put it less bluntly. “You said she was generous. I imagine that was how she thought of it.”

“That does sound like Val.” He’d lowered his face.

“Sherlock,” Jo said in an undertone, “we should—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking up, “please don’t go. I want to know more. Who killed her?”

“We don’t know yet,” Jo said. “We’ve found someone who was involved, and we’re confident the police can track his employer. At the very least, we’ve given them enough to drop you as a suspect.”

“Was it quick?”

“They’d have given her a sedative,” Jo said. “It wouldn’t have felt much different than the accident you thought it was. She would have fallen asleep and it would have been over.” Sherlock made a noise of dissent, which Jo hastened to cut off. “If she was as careful as you say, she would have told them to make it painless.”

“Can you prove any of this?”

“Not yet, not to hold in court,” Jo admitted, “but that’s just a matter of finding the man she hired. That shouldn’t take long.”

“It will mean giving up the insurance money,” Sherlock said. “There was a two-year suicide exemption on the policy, which explains why she wanted it to look like an accident.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” Morstan took a deep breath. “Thank you. You’ve no idea what a weight this has lifted.”

“You’re—relieved?”

“Dr. Watson, it’s not a pleasant thing to believe someone you loved was murdered. I won’t say this is easier, but at least I know she met death on her own terms.”

“There is the additional fact that it clears your name,” Sherlock said.

Morstan smiled as though it pained him. “That it does. Thank you for that much, Ms. Holmes.” He stood and offered his hand. Sherlock gave it a perfunctory shake, and it was Jo who ended up walking him down to the door.

“In terms of payment,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

“Oh, please don’t bother just now,” Jo said, ignoring the internal wail that reminded her Mrs. Hudson expected the rent in two days. “I’m sure we can work everything out later.”

“Is there a bill?”

“Er,” Jo said. She had no idea how this worked. “Yes. We just need to, ah, itemise it and send it along.”

“I hadn’t thought much about it,” he said. “It’s been hard to think past the idea I might be arrested for this.”

“If you need time,” Jo began, but he shook his head.

“If there was one thing I learned from Val, it was never to leave a bill unpaid. Just send an email and I’ll post the cheque tomorrow. I’d rather have it done.”

“Right, of course. You know, this isn’t really an open-and-shut situation, so far as the policy is concerned.” He looked confused. “Maybe if you found a good lawyer—”

He laughed. It lifted the grief from his face and made him look years younger and infinitely appealing, but she couldn’t let herself think that way. “This is going to sound mad, but that part _is_ a relief. I’ve been trying to mourn my marriage since long before she died. The policy was just one more thing to keep me from moving on. And what would you do with that kind of money?”

 _It would keep us in rent and nicotine patches for a good long while_ , Jo thought. Aloud, she said, “I’ve no idea.”

“Thank you,” he said seriously. “I’d expected this to be worse.”

“Sherlock’s brilliant.”

“No, I meant—you’ve been kind.” He made an abortive gesture toward her face. “And I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this.”

“It was my fault, really,” Jo said, because anyone who jumped off a roof deserved whatever they got at the bottom. She smiled back at him and tried not to wince when it pulled her lip. “Don’t think anything of it.”

“Good night, Dr. Watson.” He clasped her hand once more, and then he was gone.

She let her forehead fall against the door after it closed. This was more than the inconvenient return of her sex drive. Two brief meetings and she not only found Scott Morstan attractive; she found him appealing. It was hopeless, really. He’d been married to Valerie Hammond, who despite a skewed sense of morals had been undeniably captivating. What could an ex-army doctor with a weak leg and a weaker bank account offer in comparison to that?

It took her ages to get back up the stairs. Bruised ribs were as bad as the leg had been. Sherlock was waiting curled at one end of the couch, her head stretched back against the cushions. Jo all but fell into the opposite end.

“You’re certain you’ve got this right?” she asked. When all that earned her was a cold silence, she added, “It seems like a lot of guesswork.”

“I never guess. I considered all the other possibilities, and this was the only one that fit all the facts.”

“Have you told Lestrade?”

“Texted him just now.”

“How could you explain all this in a text?”

“I told him enough. No doubt he’ll have a different perspective.” Sherlock’s mobile buzzed in instant agreement.

“Going to answer it?”

Sherlock rested her the back of one long hand against her forehead, the picture of supreme indolence. “You can if you like.”

Jo thought about it. Then she brought her feet up, one painfully after the other, to rest on the coffee table. “We’ll drop by tomorrow.”

“You don’t have other plans?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this absurd mating ritual you’ve been conducting with our client. I’d warn you about mixing business and pleasure, but really all I care about is that it’s dreadfully dull and it’s affecting your mood.”

“ _Mating_ —is this how you plan to react whenever I bring someone home?”

“I’m not the one reacting. Do what you like in your bedroom. It’s no concern of mine, and Morstan would be less tiresome than some.”

“It’s hard to conduct mating rituals with someone still half in love with his dead wife,” Jo said. “ ‘A bit not good’ doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Sherlock made a noise from which Jo could read nothing more specific than boredom. Rather than try and fail to interpret it, Jo reached for the untouched tea and did her best to forget all about Scott Morstan.

********

Jo would never understand Sherlock’s attitude toward her cases. She would attack something with every ounce of her considerable energy for days on end, leaving no stone unturned and no minute bit of evidence unexamined, but the moment she’d achieved that instant of perfect revelation she was willing to step back and let the police clean up. She left the Hammond case a complete shambles.

“The rest of it is beside the point,” she told Jo, who’d had the temerity to object. “We know motive and method. I’ve solved every relevant aspect of the problem.”

“Except for the identity of the murderer, Sherlock! Isn’t that relevant?”

“Not in this case. Oh, they’ll track him down soon enough. Lestrade is nothing if not reliable, and if he has any difficulty he knows how to reach me.” She gave Jo a knowing, not to mention bored, look. “You needn’t worry on Morstan’s account.”

She was right, of course. It took Lestrade less than a week to run the killer to ground. He was a carefully bland sort of man, accountant by day and arranger of convenient deaths by night, and they were able to link him to half a dozen other unsolved cases and an assortment of petty criminals he’d hired as assistants. Cross-referencing his accounts with Hammond’s made it quite clear that she had, in fact, hired him to commit her own murder. Sherlock took a brief interest in his prosecution but dropped it almost immediately.

“He’s a disappointing criminal, Joanna,” she reflected one morning. “Flashes of brilliance, of course. The actual murder was deftly executed. But hiring Wilkins for multiple jobs was an amateur’s mistake. No, I am inclined to say the only part of this case worthy of note was the victim herself.”

Jo was sitting in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee and waiting for her hair to dry. It had started to grow out, and she was just at the point of contemplating a hairdryer for the first time in years. She had a sudden memory of the photos she’d seen of Hammond, her hair thick and artfully styled, a wicked gleam in her eye. It would have been difficult to compete with that, she thought before she could stop herself. “I can’t tell if I find her terribly cruel or just terribly sad. Can you imagine taking out a hit on your own life?”

“I wouldn’t need to,” Sherlock said. Joanna supposed that was true. There must be any number of people in London who would be quite willing to do it for her, given the opportunity. “Still, it’s an ingenious solution if she didn’t have the nerve to do it herself.”

“Callous, Sherlock.”

“Call it a professional assessment. She’d have made a fine criminal, and she did plan for most eventualities.”

“Not for you.”

“Not for me. Nor, I suspect, for the persistence of her life insurance company. Perhaps the size of her policy was a miscalculation. Still, I imagine it was meant to be generous.”

“I don’t think much of grand gestures,” Jo said sourly. “They’re usually meant to make up for being horrid every other day of the year, and they seldom work.” She set the empty cup down with a hollow clunk. “I’ll leave you to your analysis of the Valerie Hammond’s fascinating psyche.”

“Actually, I have something else on. It’s a delicate little forgery case, but I take it you have a therapist’s appointment this morning. Haven’t you fired her yet?”

“Job interview.” Sherlock looked up, startled. “But yes, an appointment after that. I’m working on the firing bit.”

“A job interview. I see. I take it that means I’ll be without backup for the forgery business.”

Jo smiled despite herself. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock said nothing to that, but Jo could feel the warmth of her satisfaction following her to the stairs. It was oddly comforting.

It didn’t last long. “Oh, and Joanna?”

“Yes?” She paused, one hand on the door.

“I believe we’re out of milk.”

The door slammed so loudly that she almost regretted it, if only for Mrs. Hudson’s sake. Almost, but not quite.

Her interview went well. Sarah told her she was overqualified, which was true, but it was equally true that she needed the job, and badly. Jo left the clinic with gainful employment and instructions s to come in on Monday. She’d work around the forgery business somehow.

The psychiatric office was just as she remembered it, down to the expression on the receptionist’s face when she explained her business there. “I know I have a full hour’s appointment, but I don’t need one,” she said. “Can you just help me explain to Dr. Ginzberg that I don’t want to waste her time? All I really want is someone to wean me off the medications and be certain all the paperwork’s filled out. The army’s a bit particular about that sort of thing.”

“So you’re saying…”

“I’m saying I don’t need therapy.”

“ ‘Need’ is a loaded term, Dr. Watson,” said a familiar voice. Dr. Ginzberg had emerged from the back office. She didn’t seem at all perturbed to find her newest patient engaged in an escape attempt. “I prefer to suggest that a therapist might help you.”

Jo drew in a shaky breath. She was in no mood to be condescended to. Her considerable reserves of patience were much in demand those days, what with—well, mostly with Sherlock—and she found it difficult to be tactful.

“I don’t want a therapist. Or is ‘want’ also a loaded term?”

Dr. Ginzberg was in the middle of some paperwork, and she paused to flip through a few pages and sign her name before looking back up at Jo. “I read Dr. Thompson’s notes.”

“What did they tell you?”

“They said you have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and had, until very recently, a psychosomatic limp. That you have trust issues, that you have no-one to confide in, but that you’ve recently become more willing to express your irritation with the tedium of the therapeutic process, which Dr. Thompson takes as a sign of progress. Your decision to room with a woman with antisocial personality disorder and your apparent preference for her company over that of anyone else indicate a fear of intimacy. Dr. Thompson does not take that as a sign of progress. Does that sound accurate, Dr. Watson?”

Jo offered her a tight-lipped smile in response.

“That,” said Dr. Ginzberg, “is what the notes said. What they told me is rather different.”

Jo wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of asking, but Dr. Ginzberg didn’t seem to mind. She turned to the next page of the form and glanced at Jo over the rim of her sleek, rectangular glasses.

“You’re very aware of nuance, aren’t you?” Dr. Ginzberg asked.

“Sorry?”

“Nuance. It doesn’t appeal to you, precisely, but you’re more prepared than most to accept life’s many grey areas. That’s surprising in someone who carries herself in such a straightforward way, who fits so easily into the stereotype of the typical soldier. Dr. Thompson suggests your irritation with the therapeutic process is the result of a tendency to see the world in concrete terms, from a belief that psychiatry is too fuzzy a science, but I’m not convinced that’s true.”

Unsure where she was going with this, Jo said nothing.

Dr. Ginzberg looked back down at the papers in front of her, her pen moving along each line of text as she read. “Some people deal with the complexities of the world they live in by breaking them down into their composite parts. Organizing them, analyzing them, searching for the discrete elements. The atomic units, if you will. By breaking things down, they hope to label them and produce a definitive answer. I don’t believe you are one of those people.”

“Are all therapists paid by the syllable?”

“No,” she said, looking up, her face impassive. “No, we are paid to do our jobs. I am very good at mine, Dr. Watson. I know my audience, and I know you’ve absorbed lectures and papers in language far more abstruse than anything I’ve used. Shall I tell you what kind of person I think you are? I think you’re the sort whose confidence in science is not strengthened in medical school, but shaken, who realises that far more of medical science than anyone likes to admit relies on placing each individual case somewhere on a slippery continuum between two uncertain points. The sort of doctor who decides during her residency that there is something treacherous about the fact that so many terrible illnesses are just exaggerations and misapplications of the body’s natural behaviour. It makes trauma injuries seem so simple, doesn’t it? I can see why you found military service appealing. On the other hand, I don’t suppose that philosophy has endeared my profession to you. We do so like to put labels on things. Do you suppose you’ve let that colour your attitude toward your treatment?”

It was like nothing quite so much as that first meeting with Sherlock, having her character stripped down and her history laid bare before a complete stranger. Jo didn’t know how to respond.

“I hope I can convince you there is some value to be found in these sessions, Dr. Watson. Dr. Thompson is a very gifted therapist, but personalities do not always mesh as well as we would like. That’s as true in these offices as it is anywhere else. I suspect you might find me a better fit.”

“I don’t need a therapist,” Jo said, because she didn’t have anything else.

“What did you do to your lip?”

It took a real effort not to touch the still-knitting tissue. A glance in the mirror that morning had told her it was surrounded by a fading bruise. Two weeks later and she still looked like a crime scene. “Why does it matter?”

“If you tripped coming up the stairs, it probably doesn’t. If, as I suspect, it has something to do with your last blog post, it matters a great deal. Yes, I’ve read your blog. I’ll stop reading it if you prefer, but I thought it wise to start on the same page as Dr. Thompson left. Do you find running after murderers therapeutic, or is it just the closest you can get to Afghanistan?”

Every possible answer to that question was incriminating in one way or another. Dr. Ginzberg must have known this, because she waved one hand to forestall a response.

“Never mind that. It’s all beside the point.”

“What is the point?”

“Simply that as much as the British Army needs trained medical officers, your current psychiatric profile would limit you to a desk job. You know that as well as I do.”

“I’m not an MO anymore.”

“You never had the chance to make that decision, Dr. Watson. Would you like to change that?”

“You mean—”

“I mean a full, documented recovery could give you your life back.”

It was like a blow to an organ Jo didn’t even know she’d had. Dr. Thompson had never brought up possibility of returning to active duty, and Jo had never let herself think about it consciously, but now the limp was gone and her hand hadn’t troubled her in weeks. She hadn’t considered what that might mean. “I don’t know what I’d like.”

“That seems as good a reason as any to try the therapy, doesn’t it?” Dr. Ginzberg smiled. It should have been condescending, but there was a touch of real sympathy in it. “By my watch, we have another forty-five minutes for this session. You can just walk out that door, of course.” She signed her name one last time and handed the clipboard to the receptionist, who all this while had been trying very hard to look as though he wasn’t listening. “The alternative is to follow me back to my office.”

“For forty-five minutes.”

“This week, yes. After that it would be up to you.”

“Would you still want me to update the blog?”

Dr. Ginzberg laughed, and it was that more than anything that decided her. “Only if you like doing it. I will say it’s surprisingly good reading.”

“Sherlock thinks it’s too sensational.”

“Not at all. In fact, I found it quite informative. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

As it turned out, Jo would.


	4. The Cardinale (Section 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock indulges in melodrama and musical esoterica, and Jo Watson learns a thing or two about artistry.

Illustration by [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sleightofhand/profile)[ **sleightofhand**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sleightofhand/)

 

 

Jo Watson wasn’t much of a musician. She did have a half-unconscious habit of singing to herself when she was in a good mood and thought no-one was listening, but since moving in with Sherlock Holmes she’d seldom indulged. Even when her flatmate was out, which mostly happened without warning and at unreasonable hours, Jo suspected the place was bugged. Mycroft had to get his information somehow.

Even if she’d felt moved to song, odds were good that her taste and Sherlock’s would have had little in common. A basic grasp of celestial geography was not the only surprising gap in that formidable memory, and the likelihood of Sherlock recognising the name of any celebrity was directly proportional to their degree of involvement in Crimes of Interest. John Lennon she knew, not because the murder investigation was worthy of note but, she claimed, because she’d once written a series of articles on the connection between criminal insanity and stream-of-consciousness literature. Jo thought that had about a sixty percent chance of actually being true.

Classical music was another matter entirely. True, half of the time Sherlock’s attention to her violin took the form of careless, discordant scraping, but the other half Jo could close her eyes and imagine herself in a concert hall. She didn’t recognise most of Sherlock’s favourites, and Jo’s inability to tell Baroque from Romantic was a constant source of amusement. Despite that, she was developing a taste for the solo violin. It was an eerie sound at times, thin and occasionally shrill without the backing of an orchestra. When Sherlock was in the right mood it could be positively entrancing.

Provided, of course, that it wasn’t two in the morning. On one occasion during a fallow period in London crime, Jo found herself bitterly regretting that she hadn’t yet invested in earplugs. Sherlock had not yet reached the stage of boredom where Jo worried about returning to the flat to find their bathtub piled with dead bodies in varying states of decomposition, but she was far enough in the process to have lost all interest in tonality—or the time on the kitchen clock, for that matter.

She buried her head under the pillow and stole a few fitful hours of sleep before giving it up and coming downstairs to find Sherlock a suitable distraction. It was very like the time Harry had talked her into minding Clara’s three-year-old nephew, though with slightly less high-pitched screaming and a great deal more one-sided conversation about whether there were any suspicious deaths in the obits. Sherlock was between experiments, and while Jo was not precisely in favour of seeing what would happen when she exposed the contents of a pig’s stomach to a variety of corrosive materials, she knew Sherlock would come up with something worse if left to her own devices. The suggestion that Sherlock use her free time to clean up the detritus of the last experiment, still caked around the inside of the kitchen sink, met with predictable results.

By the time it was properly morning, an ache had taken up permanent residence between Jo’s temples. She tried to tune out the mindless scraping from the couch and wandered over to the windows, staring glumly out at the people down below. No doubt they led dull and unvarying lives free of kidnappings and foot-chases down darkened alleyways, but no doubt their ability to get a good night’s sleep didn’t depend on the whims of a mad genius.

That train of thought evaporated when she noted the odd behaviour of a man in the street. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked aloud.

“Is he being murdered?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“No, you ghoul. He looks ill.” He did indeed. He came stumbling up Baker Street at a half-run, wringing his hands in a way Jo hadn’t thought people did outside Victorian novels. “Is he looking at the house numbers?”

Sherlock appeared at her elbow. “I recognise the symptoms,” she said. “He’s coming here.”

“What? Why?”

“To consult me, I imagine,” she said, eyes brightening for the first time in days. “This is better than a serial murder.”

“How can you know that already?”

“Look at him, Joanna. That’s Alexander Seomun.”

“It _isn’t_ ,” Jo said. When Sherlock failed to provide reassurance that the client descending on them wasn’t the most famous living violinist Britain had managed to produce, Jo hurried to clear the armchair from under its accumulation of newspapers and unwashed plates.

Sherlock did not help. Instead she went down to the door in an uncharacteristic display of hospitality, ushering Seomun back moments later with her excitement tamped securely under a veneer of professional nonchalance.

He was a handsome man with an imposing face and a stronger figure than Jo would have expected from a professional musician. His gaze swept the room as he came in, passing over Jo with cursory interest before returning to Sherlock. “I had your name from Matthew Prendergast of the Tankerville Philharmonic,” he said. “You helped him out of a difficult situation last March.”

“I did indeed.”

“He said you were discreet.”

“I take it you’ve come here on a matter of some delicacy.”

“Extreme delicacy.” His hands actually shook where they rested on his knees, and the circles under his reddened eyes were a clear indication of a sleepless night. He flicked another uncertain look in Jo’s direction. “May I ask who this is?”

“My friend and colleague, Dr. Joanna Watson. I assure you her discretion is unimpeachable.”

Seomun nodded, then cleared his throat. Sherlock waited with what was, for her, considerable patience.

“Mr. Seomun, I will be far better able to help you if you can tell my why you have come.”

“Yes,” the man said. “Yes, of course—” but he broke off and raised his hand to his face, covering a mouth that had twisted in severe distress. He took several deep breaths, then lowered his hand and looked up at them. “I’m sorry, Miss Holmes. I’m in the greatest professional trouble of my life, which would be bad enough if it hadn’t also destroyed my family. I’m not myself.”

“Are you the victim of a crime, sir?”

“I am. A theft, in point of fact. My violin has been stolen.”

“Your own instrument, the Vuillaume? A fine violin. I heard you play Mozart’s 3rd on it several years ago.”

Seomun closed his eyes, his throat working. “Not the Vuillaume.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, drawing it out so it was almost a sigh. “The _Cardinale_.” The violinist inclined his head, but Sherlock was already up and out of her seat, speaking with the low rapidity of real interest. “Made by Antonio Stradivari in the winter of 1712. Depending on whom you choose to believe, it takes its name from either the striking red of the sound-board or from its original owner, Viscenzo Maria Orsini, later Pope Benedict XIII. Made its way to Paris by the end of the eighteenth century, where it was lost in the chaos of the Revolution and did not resurface until well after the reign of Napoleon. It was stolen no fewer than three times between 1860 and 1975, was recovered each time with great difficulty, and was finally purchased on auction at Christie’s New York by the Sir John Malcolm Society. If I recall correctly, it has been on loan to one Alexander Seomun since 2007.”

Seomun was watching her with an odd combination of relief and apprehension. “You’re familiar with the instrument.”

“Obviously.”

“Then I don’t have to tell you why my second priority is to keep this as quiet as possible.”

“It is not uncommon for musical societies and cultural associations to loan out high-profile instruments to gifted musicians,” Sherlock said, and it took Jo a moment to realise this was for her benefit. “The price of a violin with the tonal depth and historical significance of a Stradivarius is prohibitively high even for a world-renowned musician such as our client, and they do come in limited quantities. This sort of arrangement is beneficial to everyone, provided, of course, that the instrument remains in the hands for which it was intended. The loss of an unique piece like the _Cardinale_ would be tragic for the world at large and a profound embarrassment to everyone involved.”

Seomun had seized on the word ‘client’ and would not be deterred by that sort of pessimism. “You will take the case?”

“Do we have a deadline? I can’t imagine that this can be kept quiet for long, and Joanna will tell you that I thrive under pressure.”

“I’m set to play the Mendelssohn at the Barbican on Friday evening—tomorrow, my God. If I play it on any other instrument it’ll be noticed.”

“Tomorrow evening,” Sherlock said meditatively. The flicker of challenge was gone almost before it had appeared, but Jo had been watching for it. “That’s a little more pressure than I would have liked. No, don’t be alarmed.” Sherlock gave him one of those half-smiles that failed to reach her eyes but that Jo was nevertheless beginning to read as reassuring. “I’ll take the case. I’ll find the _Cardinale_ and return it to you by tomorrow, and I can promise absolute discretion. I do, however, have a price.”

“Anything.”

She hesitated, and Jo sat forward in astonishment. Sherlock being self-conscious was a rare occurrence, and the signs of it were subtle, but she was learning to recognise them. “I would like the chance to play it.”

Seomun’s lips parted in surprise, and he let out an weak laugh. “Miss Holmes, if you can do this for me, it would be my pleasure to arrange that. I didn’t know you played.”

“A little.” Jo nearly laughed herself; if asked, she’d have put Sherlock’s musical talent just a little short of her genius for deduction, and she was about to say so when Sherlock gave her a quelling look. “A hobby, nothing more. My virtuosity lies in a different direction. I will, however, require a statement of the facts.”

“Of course. Where should I begin?”

“When did it go missing?”

“It was stolen early this morning from my studio at home.”

“Then perhaps you could give me a precise chronology of your activities yesterday, leading up to the theft.”

Seomun cleared his throat, and Jo got up to make some tea. The kitchen was close enough that she could hear him easily over the clatter of mugs and the low sputter of the kettle.

“I woke around nine, as usual. My family are not early risers. I made toast and coffee, I showered. I was dressed by ten. Is that too much detaill?”

“Not at all. One never knows what may be useful. You mentioned your family. Who lives in your home?”

“My wife died years ago, and I never remarried. She left me a son who is now twenty-seven.”

“And still living with you?”

“London is expensive, Miss Holmes, and Paul has never been good with money.”

“Is he unemployed?” Seomun must have reacted, because Sherlock added with more than her usual sensitivity, “It’s not an uncommon state.”

“He is unemployed, but I won’t give him the excuse of the economy. I sent him to the best schools, I’ve used all the connections I have, but he’s never been able to hold down a job for long. He has debts. He—I confess he is a disappointment in many ways. I spoilt him after his mother died.”

“Was he at home that morning?”

“No. He was out when I woke up.”

“Still out from the night before?”

“I don’t think so. He must have left earlier that morning.”

“To go where?”

“You would have to ask him, Miss Holmes.”

“I will be sure to do so. Is he the only other member of your household?”

“There’s also my goddaughter, Marie Holder.” Jo glanced back into the sitting room and found that the sudden warmth in the violinist’s voice was matched by the faint smile that crossed his face. “She’s in art school and moved in with us last year to save on rent. She calls me Uncle, but I think I can say she considers me a second father, and I’ve always thought of her as my own. Her parents are two of my oldest friends. They live in Cornwall.”

“She was at home yesterday?”

“Yes, for most of the day. We converted a spare bedroom into a painting studio when she came to stay with us. She spends most of her time in there and doesn’t go out much when she’s not at school. She’s not like Paul, that way.”

The kettle had begun to hiss. Jo missed the next bit as she poured and retrieved the milk from the refrigerator door, noting as she did so that the gelatinous substance in the ice tray had changed colour overnight. _Bodily fluids or untraceable poisons?_ she wondered, then decided it was better not to ask.

“I played at home for an hour. I don’t do heavy technical rehearsal in the morning, but I like to start my day with the violin. Then I left at eleven to meet my manager,” Seomun was saying as she came back in with the tea. “We had recording contracts to discuss, and that lasted almost two hours, so we went for lunch after. Then I returned home for my violin, and then to Barbican Hall for a rehearsal.”

“How was it?”

“The rehearsal?” He took the tea with an absent nod, all his attention still on Sherlock. “It went well. We had some early trouble over the tempo of the third movement, but that’s all been worked out.”

“And what time did you finish?”

“Around six. They rehearse late on week nights. I stayed after to talk with the principal violinist and one of their cellists. We’ve collaborated on small ensemble work before and were thinking of putting together a quartet for a series of concerts next year. Marie arrived shortly after the rehearsal had finished, but she said she didn’t mind waiting. She often picks me up in the evening once her afternoon lectures are over.”

“You don’t drive yourself.”

“Not when I can avoid it. I hate London traffic, but I wouldn’t risk the violin on the Tube. I take cabs to and from rehearsal when Marie is out.”

“And yesterday you brought the Stradivarius itself to rehearsal, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“Did you keep it with you throughout this discussion?”

Seomun thought about this for a moment. “I don’t believe I had it beside me the whole time. I’d put it back in the case when we broke for the evening, and then I left it on a chair. We went out once to the vending machines down the hall, but I’m sure someone stayed behind. I’d never have left it unattended. It doesn’t matter, though. As I said, it was stolen from my home, and that was hours later.”

“When did you return home?”

“An hour or so after the rehearsal had finished. I put the violin back in the safe the moment we were home.”

“Is that your habit?”

“It is. I’m very careful. Then Marie and I made dinner, and Paul came in around nine.”

“Came in from where?”

“I’ve no idea. I gave up asking years ago, Miss Holmes. It’s pointless. He comes in at all hours, and he’ll hardly ever tell me where he’s been. Not looking for work, I’m quite certain.”

“What is his state of mind when he comes home?”

This clearly pained Seomun, but he didn’t hesitate. “We rarely speak enough for me to tell, but often as not there’s alcohol on his breath. It’s clear enough how he spends his time.”

“Do you suspect drugs?”

Here he did pause. “Never at home. When he’s out, though—it’s not unusual for me to go to bed without seeing him come in, then to wake up and find him still gone. He’d have time, if there are drugs.”

Sherlock nodded. “It may not be relevant. Still, we’ll come back to it if necessary. When he came home last night, did you have the impression he’d been drinking?”

“No,” Seomun said. “He was sober when he came in. I’m sure of that, because we had words. He’s rarely the one to start a conversation, but he came up to me while I was doing the washing-up and asked to borrow several thousand pounds. I wanted to know what for, and he said it was a business venture, but that was all I got out of him.”

“What did you say?”

“I turned him down, of course. What would you have done? He wouldn’t say what it was about, just that it was important and I should try trusting him for once, and what we said after that doesn’t bear repeating. Marie did her best to calm us down, but he gets his temper from me, so it didn’t do any good.”

“And then?”

“And then I gave it up and went upstairs. I was furious, but I always play in the evenings, and I don’t make exceptions for foul moods. Besides, I find it soothing. You understand.”

“Was it the _Cardinale_ you played yesterday evening?”

“Not after dinner. I’m a man of discipline and habit, Miss Holmes, and I’ve ended my day on the Vuillaume since I was eighteen. The _Cardinale_ is for concerts, recordings, and serious practice during the day.” He shrugged. “Foolish, perhaps, but I am set in my ways. The _Cardinale_ was certainly in the safe when I locked up before bed. I’d have noticed if it hadn’t been. That was a little after one.”

“Is the safe in your bedroom?”

“It’s in my studio down the hall. I don’t play in my room at night. Paul and Marie would never get their sleep, otherwise.”

“So you locked it back in at one and went immediately to bed.”

“Yes.”

“Had your son and goddaughter gone to bed?”

“Marie had. I believe she stayed downstairs with Paul when I went up to play. She hates it when we argue, and she does her best to patch things up afterward. She came up a little before midnight and wished me good night.”

“And your son?”

“He never went to bed, at least not while I was awake. I sleep soundly, and his room is at the opposite end of the hall.” Seomun’s mouth tightened. “I woke up at around three to barking downstairs.”

“Barking?”

“We have a dog, Ms. Holmes.”

“So I assumed. My question is whether he often barks in the middle of the night.”

“If Paul comes in late, he does. He’s no better trained than Paul is. Is it important?”

“We’ll return to it. Do continue.”

“It took me a few moments to get my bearings, and I heard steps on the stairs. When I left my room a moment or two later I heard someone moving about in the practice room. Marie came out just then in her robe and asked what was going on, and I—I didn’t even think, though burglars should have occurred to me. I opened the door of the studio, and there was Paul standing over the open safe, holding a shattered violin.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply, but Seomun shook his head. “It wasn’t the _Cardinale_ , the colouring was quite different. It also wasn’t the Vuillaume or either of my other two violins. It’s badly damaged, but I’m certain it’s no instrument I’ve ever played.”

“What did your son say?”

“He seemed terrified. I couldn’t get a coherent word out of him. Then Marie asked me if it was the _Cardinale_. She was almost in tears. I said it wasn’t, and then we all looked at the safe. The _Cardinale_ was gone. There was simply no sign of it. My Vuillaume was still there, but the Stradivarius and its case—gone.”

“What then?”

“I demanded to know what Paul had done with the _Cardinale_ ,” he said.

“I take it this didn’t prompt an immediate confession.”

“He laughed,” Seomun said. “He laughed at me, but I’ve never heard him sound so unhappy. He said I could believe what I liked. Then he left the room, and I haven’t had a word from him since.”

“And your goddaughter?”

“Distraught.”

“Naturally.” Sherlock rested her chin on steepled fingers. “You said earlier that it was your second priority to avoid public humiliation.”

“My first is obviously to recover the Stradivarius unharmed.” The man’s face crumpled, and it was a moment before he recovered himself. “Miss Holmes, this is more than professional for me. That violin is like one of my children.”

“My condolences,” Sherlock said, unimpressed. “I was going to ask whether, in your effort to keep the matter quiet, you have gone to the police. No, I thought not. They are about as subtle as a herd of intoxicated elephants.”

“I was hoping to keep this unofficial.”

“When I find the thief, you don’t want him prosecuted?”

Seomun’s face fell, and Sherlock said, “I see. You are quite convinced you know the responsible party already. Curious that you would still trouble to engage my services.”

“Who else could it have been?” Seomun asked, his voice thick with desperation. “I found him standing over the safe. He knew the combination, for God’s sake. It was Paul.”

“You believe your son would do this to you?”

“He’d been drinking after I went upstairs. There’s a bottle of Scotch in the library, and it was sitting open with a glass beside it. I could smell it on his breath, and it was obvious enough in the way he was speaking. He may not have been thinking clearly. But then how on earth did he get rid of it? I’ve searched the house up and down, even Marie’s room, and I’m certain it’s not there.”

“He may not have been thinking clearly last night, but he’s had hours to sober up. You say he hasn’t offered an explanation?”

“Not since I confronted him.”

“Which you take as proof of his guilt.”

“If he didn’t take the _Cardinale_ , why not tell me what really happened?”

“One wouldn’t expect an innocent man to take offence when his own father accuses him of theft,” Sherlock said. Seomun bristled, but before he could reply she asked, “How well do you know Henri Renard?”

It wasn’t a name Jo knew. Seomun recognised it, but he seemed confused. “Why do you ask?”

“Humour me, Mr. Seomun.”

“We’ve met several times. I wouldn’t say I know him well, though there was that time three years ago…. He’s a fine violinist, in any case.”

“A Frenchman,” Sherlock said for Jo’s benefit. “He was also considered for the _Cardinale_ when the Society decided to loan it out. I understand there were some difficult politics involved.”

“These things can be unpleasant,” Seomun acknowledged.

“Was there any lingering resentment? It was no small thing when you were offered the instrument.”

“Of course not,” Seomun said, looking a bit offended. “We’ve always been professional. What are you suggesting? He didn’t walk into my house last night and make away with my violin.”

“He is in the country, though.”

“For a concert series, Ms. Holmes. Not to steal the _Cardinale_.”

“As you say,” Sherlock agreed. “I do have one other question.”

“Anything.”

“Can you tell the difference?”

“Between?”

“A Stradivarius and an imitation. I heard Matthew Trusler on a Rhonheimer last year, and the sound was quite appealing. I certainly couldn’t distinguish between the two, but actually playing the instrument must be quite a different experience. I ask, you understand, out of scientific curiosity.”

Seomun was startled, but then his face relaxed in a smile. “There’s nothing in the world like it, Ms. Holmes.”

“I’m glad to hear it. That will be all. If you’ll leave us your address, you can expect us at your home within the hour.”

She ushered him out herself, but the moment the door had closed she came springing back into the sitting room, rubbing her hands in undisguised delight.

“Happy, are you?” Jo asked, amused.

“A case, Joanna! And _what_ a case.” She bounded over to the laptop on the table and opened a web browser. It was Jo’s computer, but that had never stopped her before.

“What are you going to find online?”

“Henri Renard’s concert schedule. Do put away the tea things, Joanna, you know how Mrs. Hudson will fuss if you don’t.”


	5. The Cardinale (Section 2)

The tea things having been put duly away, they left Baker Street in a cab. Jo had a job now, and there was still money left over from the Hammond case, so she didn’t complain at the unnecessary expense.

“I wouldn’t have said you played ‘a little’,” she said.

Sherlock was scrolling through the results of her research. “And I wouldn’t have counted your uninformed and, I may even say, musically ibecilic opinion as relevant to a man like Seomun. There are degrees in everything, and while I have some undeniable talent my moderate proficiency is nothing to his. To compare us would be like equating myself with Lestrade in other areas.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about Lestrade.”

“Quite possibly. You know who he is?”

“Lestrade?”

“Seomun. You recognised his name once I mentioned it.”

“Sherlock, I may be a musical imbecile, but everyone knows who Alex Seomun is.”

“It was a bit of a professional risk, expanding into popular music,” Sherlock mused, “but it paid off financially, if nothing else, and he’s done some interesting things with early _sanjo_ melodies.”

Whatever that meant. Jo lowered her voice, mindful of the cabbie up front. “So why do you need me on this one? There aren’t any dead bodies to examine, and I’m not about to go running for my Browning.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s just a violin, Sherlock. We’re not talking about the Hope Diamond or some shady drug ring that’s going to get you knifed in a back alley.”

“ _Just_ a violin?”

“A very nice one, I’m sure.” Sherlock still looked scandalised. “And expensive, maybe, but surely it’s not the sort of thing people get murdered over.”

“Seomun’s career is at stake over this case. If you don’t believe people might be killed over this ‘sort of thing’, then you betray a profound ignorance of the artistic community.”

“That surprises you?”

“And the money is nothing to ignore, dull though it may be.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“A conservative estimate would put it at two and a half million.”

Jo choked. “Pounds?”

“Would you prefer a figure in Turkish Lira? Of course pounds. But it’s almost certainly not about the money.”

“Why not? Two and a half million is, well, it’s two and a half million.”

“Yes, but once can’t simply pawn a Stradivarius. An instrument of that quality would impress anyone with half a brain as something out of the ordinary, and the _Cardinale_ ’s colouring alone makes it far too recognisable to sell. The eventual owner would have to keep his purchase under wraps.”

“Black market, then,” said Jo, who was getting used to keeping up her half of the conversation in questions alone.

“Not as you would probably think of it. It is, of course, possible to steal an item of international significance and make the matter quietly known to those who might consider purchasing it, but it’s far more likely that it was taken with a buyer already in mind. Likelier still that the buyer himself commissioned the theft.”

“That should make it easier if you can narrow down the field of people who’d be interested.”

“That would be one way of going about it.”

“But you’ve a better one.”

“It would be an appalling coincidence if Seomun’s first rival for the _Cardinale_ happened to be in London on the same night the instrument was stolen.”

“You think this Renard person has moved from violin playing to cat burglary?”

“I think he’s a more likely candidate than Paul Seomun. He may have needed money, but stealing his father’s priceless violin would not have been the way to go about getting it.”

“He might have had an offer from a buyer, like you said. Renard, even.”

“Possible, but if it was premeditated, why wouldn’t he also have prepared a story? Nor does that explain the broken violin.”

“Yes, where did that come from?”

“Data, Joanna. We simply don’t have any. It’s far too early to speculate.”

“If this was a bad gothic novel,” Jo said, before she could think about what she was saying, “and if Seomun didn’t live in the middle of London, I’d say gypsies.”

Sherlock looked at her as though she’d grown a second head.

“You know,” Jo said. “Wandering minstrels, that sort of thing. There’d be a grand old country house and probably a beautiful woman somewhere, and the free-spirited fiddler would magic her away in the middle of the night along with the violin, leaving his own instrument in its place…” She trailed off weakly. Sherlock now looked as though that second head had expressed a passionate belief in the reality of alien abductions.

“What on earth have you been reading,” Sherlock said, not so much in question as in judgement.

“Nothing, lately. It was while I was still in hospital. I needed a distraction, and Harry was the only one who came to visit. Her taste in light reading is—”

“Appalling. And evidently contagious.”

“As distractions go, it’s healthier than nicotine patches.”

“Physically, perhaps, but it’s clearly affected your mental state. Not to mention your blog.”

“What’s wrong with my blog?”

At that point, their cab pulled up outside Seomun’s home, and Sherlock was prevented answering. This was probably just as well.

The house was a tall but otherwise deceptively modest two-story. Deceptive until you took into account the fact that it was in the King’s Pyland neighbourhood, which meant it had at least doubled in value over the last few years. Jo was about to comment as they approached the front door, but she was interrupted by a deep barking. Seomun appeared a moment later with one hand firmly around the collar of a large Alsatian.

“Down, Gregory!” he said, to little effect. Jo was fond of dogs, however, and recognised the bright eyes and pricked ears as signs of friendly enthusiasm. She extended one palm to be sniffed and thoroughly licked.

Seomun had the grace to look embarrassed. “As I said, we haven’t trained him very well. He’ll bark at anyone who comes to the door.”

“I don’t mind,” Jo said. “How old is he?” The dog pushed his head into her hand, and she scratched his ears as Sherlock slid past them into the house. The stock questions and answers of dog lovers everywhere seemed to put Seomun at his ease, so Jo kept it up as they followed her inside. They covered the basics of breeding, temperament, and endearing habits as Sherlock examined the layout and contents of each room on the ground floor, concluding with the library. The Scotch was still sitting out on one of the shelves, a dirty glass beside it. Sherlock picked up the glass and examined it against the light from the window, then set it back down.

“Your son’s?”

“Yes. After everything, it didn’t occur to me to do the clearing up.”

“That’s unsurprising. I will, of course, need to see the studio.”

“Be my guest.”

That room was up the stairs and at the end of a hall. It contained a bookshelf full of what Jo assumed was sheet music, a chair, and a music stand, but Sherlock’s attention was drawn at once to the rectangular safe set into one wall. “Decent quality,” she said, giving the combination lock an experimental spin.

“It’s Eurograde 5.”

“You say Paul knew the combination. May I ask what it was?”

Seomun reached for the lock. “It’s my late wife’s birthday.” Sherlock shot him a disbelieving look, and his face crumpled. “I know. You don’t need to tell me I’ve been an idiot.”

The safe swung open to reveal several violin cases, but Sherlock was uninterested in these. She peered at the inside of the safe door and ran an experimental finger along each of the sides. “It certainly wasn’t forced. When you came in, the door was standing open?”

“Just as you see it now.”

“And your son was standing about where I am?”

“Yes, with the other violin in his hands.”

“Ah, yes, our mystery instrument. What have you done with it?”

“It’s downstairs. Shall I get it for you?”

“Please do.” Seomun left them, and Sherlock walked straight for the window that looked out over a garden running along the side of the house. “Unlatched,” she said. “I wonder.” Jo watched as she pushed it wide open, leaned over the sill, and then with no warning at all launched herself out into thin air. She disappeared before Jo could say a word.

Jo never quite made it to outright panic. Instead she stood there in shock until Sherlock’s voice came floating up and into the room.

“As I thought. It’s quite impossible. Joanna, if you don’t mind….”

On closer examination she saw eight fingers peeping over the sill, each white with the strain of holding up its owner. Jo hurried forward to find Sherlock still attached to the fingers and her considerable length stretched out below. Her feet dangled a disconcerting height above the garden, and Jo lost no time in reaching for her arm and hauling her halfway back into the room.

“Was that necessary?” she asked, torn between relief and exasperation.

Sherlock paused, head and shoulders over the sill but the rest of her still hanging against the side of Seomun’s house. “It’s obviously necessary to consider all the routes in and out of this room,” she said, as if Jo was the unreasonable one for objecting. “There’s another window directly beneath this one. I wanted to see if I could brace myself on the ledge and use it to reach the ground.”

“Couldn’t you have tried climbing up, rather than down?”

“Up is more difficult but less important.”

“How do you mean?”

“If I had sufficient motive, I might be willing to risk my own neck climbing out this window. If I had a priceless violin under one arm, I would certainly think twice. Move aside for a moment.”

Her body tensed with effort as she brought one foot up to the window and hooked it around the edge, folding herself in two in a way that should have been impossible for anyone with such long limbs. Seomun came back into the room halfway through this process, and he watched in bemusement as she landed on the carpet, brushed off the front of her suit, and straightened.

“Ah, thank you,” Sherlock said, her eyes lighting on the bundle he carried.

“Can I ask—”

“No. If you please, Mr. Seomun.”

He handed her the lumpy, towel-wrapped object, and Sherlock folded back the corners. “It’s a wreck,” Seomun said, somewhat regretfully. “I can’t imagine what happened to it.”

“Can’t you? You’re convinced that your son came to this room, did away with the Stradivarius and its case, and was attempting to replace it with this instrument when you interrupted him. Surely you have some explanation for this.”

“Have you got one?”

“Not yet. We’re nearly finished here, but I’ll take this with me. Is there a spare case about? Go and fetch it if you would. I’ll be having a chat with your son.”

Paul Seomun was a good-looking young man who’d inherited his father’s features as well as his temper. He answered his door in a rumpled shirt and track bottoms, his hair standing up in several directions. “Are you the police?” he asked, blinking sleepily at Sherlock.

“No,” she said. “If I thought my father was going to have me arrested, I wouldn’t spend the day in bed.”

“I need my sleep,” he said. “What’s it to you? And who are you, anyway?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” She offered her hand. He took it with obvious reluctance. “Your father’s hired me to find his violin.” She’d released his hand and was examining her own fingertips. As Jo and Paul watched with equal bemusement, she waved them under her nose.

“I have better things to do with my time than break into his safe,” Paul said.

“That is moderately obvious. Have you considered telling your father?”

“I said I didn’t steal it.”

“Not about what happened last night. About what you do at all hours.”

Paul started. “What do you know about that?”

“Enough to be getting on with. As for last night, this will all be over much sooner if you tell me what happened.”

“It wasn’t Paul.” This was from a lovely young woman who’d just appeared at another door down the hall, wearing paint-smeared coveralls and an unhappy look. She approached them and laid a hand on Paul’s arm. He shrugged her off and she flinched, biting her lip. Then she turned to Jo and Sherlock. “Which of you is the detective?”

“I am,” Sherlock said. “If you can prove your god-brother is innocent, you may as well do it and save all of us a great deal of trouble.” She regarded Marie Holder with cool calculation. “Though you won’t, will you?”

“I can’t,” she said, colour rising into her face. “I can’t prove anything, but of course Paul didn’t do it.”

“Your loyalty does you credit.” Sherlock could apply sarcasm with a light touch when she chose; Marie must have noted it, because her colour deepened.

“But not much good otherwise,” Paul said. “You know what he’s like.”

“He’s upset, Paul. He’s devastated.”

“Because of the damn violin, not because of me,” he said. “Given the choice of the three of us, which do you suppose he’d rather lose?”

“Fascinating as this is, I do have questions,” Sherlock said. “Ms. Holder, when did you last see your godfather’s violin?”

“Yesterday evening when we came home.”

“When did you last see it out of its case?”

She hesitated. “I don’t remember.”

“You’re quite certain? You couldn’t tell me what condition it was in at his rehearsal yesterday, for example.”

“You don’t think it’s been harmed?” Paul asked, clearly more worried than he’d let on.

Marie was shaking her head. “He’d have said if anything was wrong with it.”

“But you never laid eyes on it yourself.”

“I—no. Not yesterday. Why would I?”

“Why indeed. Ms. Holder, have you any romantic attachments?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Paul demanded.

“That’s none of your business,” Marie said, her chin lifting.

“I see,” Sherlock said. “So, to be absolutely clear on these points: Ms. Holder has not seen the Stradivarius for at least twenty-four hours. Until her godfather woke last night, she was sound asleep. At that moment, Paul Seomun was standing in the studio holding a broken instrument, but he has no intention of explaining how it got there. All right so far?”

“Yes,” Paul said stiffly. “And you won’t get another word out of me.”

“And Ms. Holder, you have nothing else to add?”

“I was asleep, and that’s all I know,” she said, “but Paul never did this.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, giving them the bright normal-person smile that always set Jo’s teeth on edge. “You’ve been more help than you know. Joanna, we’re finished here.”

They collected the spare case from Seomun and left with the broken instrument. Sherlock hailed them a cab and gave an address in Hackney.

“Where now?” Jo asked.

“We are going to the finest luthiery in London,” Sherlock said.

“And what does that mean?”

“Luthiery, my dear Joanna, is the art of fashioning or repairing stringed instruments,” she replied. She did not add, “you philistine” in so many words, but it was heavily implied.

“All right,” Jo said equably. “So, about Paul Seomun and Marie Holder.”

“Lying through their teeth, both of them.”

“That rules out black market theft, I suppose.” She took Sherlock’s smug silence as confirmation. “They didn’t act like co-conspirators.”

“Because they aren’t.”

“But they both know what happened?”

“Obviously.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“I have a theory, no more than that. Do stop chattering. I need to think.”

The shop looked like something out of a Victorian photograph, what with the smoky windows and the faded lettering above the doors. It read “Goldblum & Daughter”, which Jo found charming. To anyone else she would have said so, but she was with Sherlock, so instead she kept silent and alert and let herself be swept inside in the detective’s wake.

Their entrance set a bell jangling above the door, but no one appeared to assist them. Jo took the opportunity to inspect her surroundings. The walls inside were covered in instruments, some safely behind glass cases, others suspended from pegs. Several long tables lined the room and held an assortment of violins in various states of disrepair. The scents of spruce and rosin were heavy in the air. When she ran a finger along the nearest tabletop it came back with a thick layer of wood dust, yet Jo noticed that none of the instruments bore the slightest hint of disuse.

“They require regular playing,” Sherlock said, her tone distracted even as she broke inerrantly in on Jo’s thoughts. “Goldblum is very conscientious.”

“You know the owner?”

“I’ve come here before.” That was not quite an answer. Sherlock bent over one table to examine an instrument, her short curls falling forward along her face. “This is the best place for repairs in London.”

“Does he make them, too?”

“She does not,” said a different voice. Jo turned to find one the wall behind her had opened to admit a tall woman with dark hair gone mostly grey, her clothing scattered with traces of wood from the workroom beyond. Sherlock straightened, and the woman—Goldblum?—nodded to her with polite familiarity before speaking to Jo. “My family has always specialised in rare and antiquarian instruments. Are you in the market?”

“She doesn’t play,” Sherlock said.

Goldblum nodded, her attention back on Sherlock. “And you, Miss Holmes, are you here for the Pollastri again?”

“No.” Sherlock held up the case, and Goldblum took it from her to set on one of the tabletops. She opened the lid and raised her eyebrows. It was a sad sight even to Jo. Long cracks ran through the belly, and when Goldblum reached in carefully with both hands it wouldn’t hold its shape, coming out instead in a scraped and shattered heap.

“Is it yours?” Goldblum asked, in the same tone of voice one might use to inquire after the death of a close friend.

“No.”

“The repairs won’t be easy.”

“I don’t believe we’ll need a repair service. I had hoped you would know the maker.”

Goldblum raised the violin to eye level and peered along the neck, then turned it over to examine the back. “You deserved better, poor dear,” she said. As a physician, Jo recognised the careful confidence of those hands. It was curious to watch her treat the instrument like a living thing, a small and wounded animal, perhaps. “I could be mistaken—it’s in very poor shape, and all the usual identification is obliterated—but I believe it’s an Ernst Teller,” she said at long last. “A fine instrument as those things go, but it’s nothing to the Pollastri, for example. Are you interested in a replacement? I don’t keep any in stock, but I can recommend several other dealers.”

“I don’t suppose there would be an easy way to track the owner,” Jo said.

“I’m afraid not. As I said, they’re fine instruments, but generally student instruments, and it’ll be almost impossible to narrow down. If it was stolen it may be on a registry.”

“It’s a start,” Jo said, but a look at Sherlock told her that optimism was unfounded.

“No time,” Sherlock said. “In any case, if I’m right it won’t have been reported. If I wanted to purchase a Stradivarius on the black market, how would I go about it?”

Goldblum blinked at the change of topic, then smiled. “You aren’t actually interested.”

“The hypothetical was not an attempt to be coy.”

“I thought not.” Goldblum tilted her head. “Even if you had turned to illegal collecting, I would have thought you had more of an affinity for Guarneri.”

Jo had no idea what that meant, but she could tell it had startled her companion. “That…is very perceptive,” Sherlock said, “but it’s beside the point.”

“I had a stolen Vuillaume in here a few years ago,” Goldblum said after giving the matter some thought. “It took me all of five minutes to realise the man was trying to fence it, and it took the police all of three hours to find the real owner once they’d made the arrest. Rare violins are easy to trace, and a Strad would be like trying to sell a Monet. No-one would touch it.”

“As I thought. That does narrow the field. When was the last time you had one in here?”

“I haven’t yet met the owner of a Stradivarius who’d leave his instrument in our shop. I make house calls for that sort of client.”

“Made any lately?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Specifically, then, I am curious about Henri Renard.”

“I don’t talk about our clients, Ms. Holmes.”

Sherlock ran her fingertips along the neck of the shattered violin, and Goldblum’s keen eyes followed the motion. Sherlock let her hand linger in a strangely sympathetic caress. “You know something of what I do. I’m looking for the man responsible for this.”

“You’re appealing to me for the safety of violins everywhere?” Goldblum’s low voice was light, amused. “It’s a terrible crime, to be sure.”

“There are worse,” Sherlock said. “I am bound to secrecy in this case, but please trust that I am not exaggerating when I say that the fate of one of our national treasures is at stake.”

Goldblum looked between Jo and Sherlock, then shrugged. “I did a tune-up for Mr. Renard when he was here on tour two years ago, but I haven’t seen him since. He doesn’t play a Strad, though; he has a Nicolo Gagliano. Lovely instrument, a real pleasure to work on, with a very warm sound.”

“What about the man himself?”

“He was polite, I remember, and very professional. Very good-looking, too.”

“I was hoping for an assessment of his character.”

Here Goldblum hesitated. “I didn’t spend much time with him.”

“But you have an opinion. Come now, you’ve spoken with me a handful of times and you can tell my preference in Baroque luthiers. You must have some come to some conclusions about him.”

“He’s a hard man, Miss Holmes. I think he’s capable of a great many things, if he’s pushed to them.”

Sherlock nodded as though she found this satisfying or illuminating, or both. “Thank you for your time.” She reached for the violin in Goldblum’s hands, and the other woman handed it over with care.

“Do let me know if you want that repaired,” she said, “but I warn you I may not be able to do much with it, and I suspect the price of the work will be more than it’s worth.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Would you like to see the Pollastri again before you go?”

Sherlock appeared to be considering this, but she shook her head. “Thank you. That won’t be necessary.” Still, she seemed reluctant to go. “Have you had any offers?”

“Yes,” Goldblum said, watching Sherlock’s expression, “but so far there haven’t been any I’m willing to take.”

Sherlock nodded once and made as though to leave, but Jo lingered. “Pollastri?” she asked. Sherlock stopped near the door, turning back with an inpatient huff.

“One of the finest violin makers of the twentieth century,” Goldblum explained. “I finished restoring one of his pieces several months ago. It’s some of my best work, and the tone is extraordinary. Your friend has played it several times.”

Her friend was holding the door open to the cold. Jo gave Goldblum an apologetic smile and followed Sherlock out, the bell jangling softly behind them.

“You got what you wanted, I take it. It’s good news?”

“For the case, certainly,” Sherlock said. “For Mr. Seomun, that depends on which of his three children he values most highly.”

Jo felt a prick of sympathy for the violinist, who had sounded that morning like a man at the end of his tether. She wanted to enquire further, but she was still curious about what she’d heard in the shop. “How much is Goldblum asking for the Pollastri?” Jo asked instead. “That couldn’t run as much as a Stradivarius.”

“Nowhere near.” Sherlock was very determinedly not looking at Jo.

Too much, though, for someone with such an irregular paycheque, someone with so little patience for other people who nevertheless had to resort to a flat-share to make ends meet. That still didn’t explain the designer clothing, but Jo was willing to take Sherlock one contradiction at a time. “How does it sound?”

“As though one adjective or another would make a difference to you.” That would have stung more if she hadn’t recognised that Sherlock was on the defensive. “Goldblum’s confirmed what we established before. This was never about the money. We’re looking for a private collector or someone with a personal grudge.”

“Why are you changing the subject?” Jo asked, genuinely curious. “This is what people do, you know, with their friends. They talk about things they like, things they want.”

Sherlock’s mouth thinned. “Your condescension is much appreciated.”

“I mean it. It’s not a weakness to be attached to something, even if it’s just a violin you can’t afford.”

“You like dogs.”

“I—is that meant to follow?”

“I saw you with Seomun’s this morning. You’ve owned one before.”

Jo took a moment to catch up. “Yes, I have.” Her father had had a passion for bull dogs, and she could still remember falling in love herself at eight years old, her fingers buried in fur and her cheek pressed against the soft ears. “Not for years, though. It wasn’t practical.”

“You could get one now.”

“In central London? In _our_ flat?” Jo thought of chemicals and body parts and poor Mrs. Hudson. The mind boggled. “And anyhow I’ve already got one fixture in my life that needs constant exercise, feeding, and attention. Why on earth do you bring it up? Is this your attempt at meaningful conversation?”

Sherlock shoved her hands deep in her coat pockets and stared straight ahead, her lower lip set in a petulant frown. Jo felt a wave of affection, of all things, for this strange and ridiculous woman. “I am capable of ordinary human interaction,” Sherlock said.

“Well, I know that.”

“I find it tiresome.”

“Also something I know.”

“So why you feel the need—”

“All right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, and I didn’t mean to be demanding. It’s just that I do very occasionally like talking about all the ordinary things that ordinary people talk about.”

“Boring.”

“I know I am. Most of us just think it’s nice when other people are willing to take an interest anyway.” Sherlock was giving her an odd look. Jo had thought she was getting better at reading Sherlock’s expressions, but this wasn’t one she’d learned to parse. “Besides, we were talking about you. In the unlikely event that you’re reduced to a purely human emotion, it’s still bound to be an interesting one. Even if it’s not, you can, you know, tell me.” Jo shook her head. “Forget it. Where’s the nearest tube station?”

“Hoxton. Where are you going?”

“I told you earlier, I have to put in a few hours at the clinic. Should have time for lunch, though. Do you want to come with?”

“Joanna,” Sherlock said, “we have a case on.”

“And I have work, and you have to eat eventually.”

“You can ring the clinic to cancel.”

“I really can’t,” Jo said, doing her best not to sound cross at yet another casual dismissal of her other responsibilities. “Come on, there’s a good Thai place on the way.”

Sherlock gave her another unfathomable look. “I have a lead to follow up.” With that, she set off down the street, head up in the way that meant she was looking for a cab. She didn’t look back at Jo, whose route would take her in the opposite direction and who was now feeling more disheartened than annoyed.

Five hours of sore throats and upper respiratory infections did not help matters. Then there was that woman who’d walked in at four with the telltale bruises on her wrists. Jo had thought of her first meeting with Sarah and winced, then augmented her prescription of cough syrup and hot tea with some of the same literature she’d been offered on that occasion. The strained conversation that followed gave her the sinking feeling that she hadn’t done much good. Perhaps a call to Lestrade or Donovan or someone sympathetic at the Yard—but Jo knew better than to think they could do pursue it without any testimony. She’d left the woman with her direct line at the clinic, and Jo herself was left with the unhappy conviction that it wouldn’t be used. She walked home, railing mentally against the brutality of certain members of the human race.

She was not precisely surprised to find the flat empty, but it still left her feeling hollow. This was ridiculous, as Sherlock was really not someone to rely on for reassurance after a spiritually trying day, but still she found herself reaching for her phone and tapping out a message.

  
 _You all right?_

 _JW_

  
Mrs. Hudson had left the evening paper on the kitchen table. Jo got through half a paragraph about the bloody mess they were making in Kandahar before giving up for the sake of her blood pressure, considered and then discarded the idea of tapping on their landlady’s door to see if she wanted to watch a few hours of mindless telly, and then just stared bleakly at her phone until it condescended to show her a reply.

  
WHY WOULDNT I BE

  
Unpunctuated. Not even initialed. This was not promising.

She waited a few minutes to send the next text, hoping all the while that it didn’t sound too hopelessly keen.

 _  
Need help with anything?_

  
This time the response came immediately:

  
NO

  
Jo let her head fall back against the seat cushions. She hadn’t intended to pick a fight, wasn’t even certain that was what she’d done, and had no idea if she was meant to be apologising for anything in particular. She spent about twenty minutes trying and failing to talk herself out of a reply. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d sacrificed her dignity to Sherlock’s vanity, and she might as well give up hoping it would be the last.

  
 _Can I come anyway?_

  
Then there was nothing for hours until, finally and over reheated take-out that had been uninspiring when it was fresh two nights before and was now simply grim, her mobile buzzed.

  
CANCEL ALL PLANS FOR TOMORROW EVENING

SH

  
Considerate it was not, but Jo supposed she could give Sherlock points for warning her precisely when her time was going to be unceremoniously co-opted. She turned her attention to the paper and tried not to feel too pleased at this apparent resolution to a row they might or might not have been having in the first place. She couldn’t help keeping an ear out for the sound of a step upon the stair, but none had come by the time she was changed for bed, and her mobile had been silent for hours.

As so often happens, her black mood dissolved with a decent night’s sleep, but Sherlock was still not back when Jo woke the next morning. This wasn’t necessarily cause for concern, so Jo forbore to text. Instead she stood for seven blissful minutes under a hot spray of water and then set about fixing herself breakfast. Aside from boiled eggs, bacon and beans on toast were just about the only things she could be counted on to cook without coming to grief. She enjoyed the familiar rhythms, the spatter and hiss of fat in the pan a soothing accompaniment to her morning.

She sat down at her laptop with a steaming mug of coffee and a plate beside her, determined to finish tweaking her CV and cover letter for the next round of applications. She’d been putting it off, but flat-share and pension aside there was only so long she could keep going on locum work alone. Though if Jo did manage to find a full-time position, Sherlock wouldn’t react well. She’d never say outright that she felt neglected, but if the previous day was any indication there was bound to be sulking of Wagnerian proportions.

An hour later, the CV was still a work very much in progress, and Jo was beginning to regret not unplugging the wireless before she’d sat down. A twitch of curiosity had led her to googling Seomun, which had in turn led to perusing his Wikipedia article, and from there she’d started clicking on links to reviews and YouTube videos. She learned that _sanjo_ referred to a particular type of Korean folk music and that Seomun had had some success in arranging it for violin and orchestra. That had been in the late nineties, well after he’d become an international sensation and had started racking up his Brits.

Eventually the coffee ran out and the gravy congealed around the last few beans on her plate. Jo pulled up a YouTube video of Seomun playing the Mendelssohn concerto he was scheduled to perform that evening, God and Sherlock willing, and turned the volume up so she could hear it over the faucet as she did the washing up.

She was halfway through the second movement and a fresh mug of tea when the front door opened. Jo waited for Sherlock to come up the stairs, her long legs eating them two at a time. She burst in with curls wildly askew, a faint flush of cold in her cheeks and an almost tangible hum of energy around her. Clearly she hadn’t had any sleep.

“What have you been doing?” Jo asked, because that seemed to be her job.

“Walking the streets,” Sherlock said. Jo considered various interpretations of this and opted to take it literally. “You would be astonished at the data one can gather from a few hours of organised perambulation.”

“What sort of data? You’ve found the violin?”

Sherlock’s eyes had glazed over, not in boredom but in deep thought, but what eventually came out of her mouth bore no resemblance to what Jo was expecting. “They’ve torn up the pavement on Charing Cross Road. It’s had a fascinating effect on pedestrian traffic flows. Walking clockwise through Leicester Square just after eight this morning, it took me three minutes longer than usual to reach the Odeon—”

“Sherlock, I don’t care about the foot traffic.”

“You should do,” Sherlock said. “It’s been useful in the past.”

“Well, I don’t. I do care about that violin. Where is it?”

“Oh, I’ve no idea.”

“Sherlock!”

“So little faith! I don’t know where it is at the moment, but I do know where it was for the greater part of yesterday morning, and I know exactly where it will be this evening.”

“Can’t you find out where it is now?”

“I could, but that would be an inefficient use of my time.”

“I’m not sure that’s—what’ve you done to your shirt? Is that grease paint?”

It was, or had been, a pristine white blouse. As Sherlock discarded her coat with a single, rather complicated shrug Jo saw that at some point since they’d parted the day before it had picked up long dark smears up the right sleeve, and a thin layer of grime clung to the back and shoulders. Sherlock brought her wrist up to sniff at the substance.

“I believe it’s a lithium-based grease,” she said thoughtfully. “I confess I’m not quite certain. It’s disconcerting to find such a gap in my knowledge. This will require further study.”

This from the woman who hadn’t cared one way or another about the heliocentric model of the solar system. “What gap is that, exactly?”

“The chemical makeup of automotive lubricants. It’s bound to come up in a case sooner or later. Last night was a real education, Joanna.”

“I’m going to regret asking this, but an education in what?”

“The proper method for brazing headlight trim.” Sherlock pushed up her shirt-cuff and frowned at the state of her forearm. “I don’t suppose you’ve left me any hot water.”

Jo set her mug down a little harder than was necessary. “You’re having a shower.”

“I think you’ll agree I need one.”

“Auto grease and headlights—what about the case?”

“Call it a minor tangent. Do stop worrying.” She reached for the top button of her blouse and set off down the hall for the loo.

Jo gave up. She finished the last of her tea in a single swallow, closed her laptop, and went for her own coat. “I’m going out,” she called in a voice that she was quite sure would carry over the hiss of the shower, but there was no reply.


	6. The Cardinale (Section 3)

It was her third appointment with Dr. Ginzberg. Jo thought things were going well; they hadn’t said a word about her ‘trust issues’, and her supposed fear of intimacy had not come up for discussion.

“And the citalopram? You’re still on a dose of forty milligrams per day, correct?”

“Yes,” Jo said.

“Have you noticed any side effects? Drowsiness, insomnia, weight changes?”

“No. I’ve gained back some of the weight I lost in hospital, but it hasn’t been too rapid.”

“Excellent. Anorgasmia?”

She hesitated. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

Ginzberg could use a flick of her eyes above the notepad as effectively as a chef could wield a fillet knife. “That wasn’t the question. I am not a tittering schoolgirl.”

“No,” Jo said, warmth rising in her cheeks as much at the reprimand as at the question. “That hasn’t been a problem.”

“Do you dispose of your pills via the toilet or the waste-bin?”

Suddenly things were not going quite so well.

Ginzberg closed her notebook. “Dr. Watson, please give me credit for some intelligence. You are not taking the citalopram. I suspect you’ve never taken the citalopram. I’ve no doubt you go to the druggist each month to collect it, but equally I’ve no doubt you dispose of every pill in some conscientious fashion that does not involve your digestive system. The toilet was a poor guess. The bin, then. Do you suppose that’s what Valerie Hammond used?”

From bad to worse. “What’s that?” Jo said, in a desperate attempt to preserve plausible deniability.

“Yes, I know your friend Sherlock raided our files. I can’t prove it. That’s not the point. The point is that she didn’t fool me, and neither do you. That said, I’m done doing the heavy lifting for you. We can spend these sessions as we have, with you sitting there answering questions more or less truthfully and me throwing analysis back at you, but frankly that’s a waste of my time.”

Sherlock was almost easier. Sherlock _liked_ doing the heavy lifting, and she never took the moral high ground. Her cheeks burning now, Jo said, “That’s fair. What do you want?”

“I’ll start with your giving up the idea you can manipulate me. I’m not your pet therapist. Have you taken any of the citalopram you’ve been prescribed?”

“No,” Jo said. It was almost a relief to say it.

“You don’t trust anti-anxiety medication?”

“I’m a doctor, I’ve prescribed it myself. I’m not taking it because don’t need anti-anxiety medication.”

“And you have no intention of taking it, even if I disagree.”

“That’s right.”

“Leaving aside the wisdom of that decision, may I ask why you’ve continued to fill the prescription?”

Jo thought Ginzberg knew very well why, but it was about time she started pulling her own weight. “For the same reason I’m still coming to sessions. If I ever want to go back to the army, I’ll need a clean bill of mental health.”

“And you won’t get it unless you go through the motions. All right. We’ll discontinue the citalopram, and I’ll even sign off on that. We’ll revisit the issue in future. What about the pain medication you were given on discharge?”

“I took it for a week or two. That I definitely didn’t need.”

“Which I suspect has more to do with your sister’s history of addiction than the fact that your pain was any better. How is your shoulder?”

“Stiff, but not bad.”

“Your notes from physical therapy said you might regain a full range of motion if you kept up a good regimen.”

“Ella suggested yoga.”

“Yes, I see. Quite natural. In addition to the meditative benefits, it improves balance and core strength. It would do wonders for your shoulder if you found a good instructor. I wouldn’t have recommended it, though.” Ginzberg smiled at her. “You don’t have the right sort of patience, do you?”

“Probably not. What would you suggest instead?”

“Something a little more in line with your interests. Kickboxing, perhaps.”

Jo laughed, and despite everything their session ended on a high note.

She arrived home to find Sherlock washed, changed, and thoroughly absorbed in something on her laptop.

“Sherlock,” Jo said, “it’s Friday evening.”

“So it is.”

“You told Seomun you’d have solved the case by now.”

“And I have.”

“How?” Jo asked, startled. “You have the Stradivarius?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“The concert starts in three hours.”

“Which means you don’t have much time. Hurry and get ready.”

“ _I_ don’t have—ready for what? Sherlock, I’m sure everything is quite clear inside that marvellous brain of yours, but I’m going to need a little more to work with.”

Sherlock sighed, drawing it out as though Jo was the one being difficult. “I need you to go into your room and change into the clothes you’ll find laid out on your bed, and then I need you to go and collect Seomun. Tell him to proceed as usual for the concert tonight. I may be later than he’d like. If you don’t hear from me, make certain he’s ready to go on stage in time for the Mendelssohn. He may warm up on his Vuillaume.”

“But where are you going?”

“Whither thou canst not. Go. Change. You’re distracting me, and I want to be sure I got your shoe size right.”

Jo wanted to protest. She wanted to do a lot of things, but then the last bit of that penetrated, and she turned on her heel to go upstairs. Laid on her bed were a pair of high-heeled shoes that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.

She hadn’t worn heels in, God, had it been four years now? There had been that party just before she’d shipped out that time in ‘06. Ridiculous things. They’d been bright red and nearly too tall to dance in, which wasn’t any great loss. Dancing was not one of Jo’s talents. But there’d been no heels in Afghanistan, even if there’d been an point in wearing them or anything to wear them with. Then she’d got back and even once she was out of hospital she hadn’t been in the mood for dressing up, hadn’t had anything to dress up for, and besides all that it had been hard enough to stay upright with flats and a cane to contemplate that sort of thing. Now, though….

She reached for the shoes. Sherlock had, of course, chosen the size perfectly.

Beneath them lay a dress, also not the sort of thing she’d worn since coming home from Afghanistan. Not the sort of thing she’d worn ever, really. It was one long line of deep, ice-blue silk, richly textured, sleeveless but with a high collar that dipped down to meet at a row of tiny buttons. Its height would hide the scar that reached the joining of shoulder and neck; the soft wrap folded neatly on her pillow would cover the bits that would otherwise have been hidden by sleeves. Joanna tried to remember if Sherlock had ever laid eyes on her scar, thought the answer was probably no, and wondered why she was surprised at this bit of preternatural foresight.

She had just remembered that she hadn’t shaved since leaving for Afghanistan, either, when Sherlock’s voice came floating up the stairs: “Razor’s in the drawer under the sink.”

Jo brought dress and shoes downstairs with her. Sherlock was typing something on her laptop— _Jo_ ’s laptop, she noticed with something too resigned to be irritation—and she didn’t look up when Jo came in. Didn’t look up, in fact, until Jo had crossed the room to stand over her chair. “Problem?”

“Why the clothes?”

“You can’t attend a performance of the LSO in an ill-fitting cardigan and baggy slacks.”

“I thought I was going to keep Seomun from panicking.”

Sherlock fixed her with a disapproving frown. “And having gone to all this trouble, would you deprive yourself of the transcendent experience of hearing Mendelssohn performed by one of the greatest living violinists? I’ve reserved seats for both of us. Besides, they’ll never let you in the door looking like that.”

Jo stared down at her for a moment, then decided blind obedience was the better part of valour and retreated to the toilet. Along with the razor and a bottle of shaving cream, she found tubes of mascara and lipstick (subtle and flattering to Jo’s colouring, even if it wasn’t a shade she’d ever have chosen for herself), the latter of which she applied carefully once her claves were shining and smooth, or as close to either of those things as they were ever likely to get. War was hell on one’s extremities.

It felt foreign, the waxy coating over her lips, the brush of a skirt against her calves. The sight of her body swathed in expensive fabric was startling; it took months to recover from the sort of injuries she’d had, and she was used to hiding her changed form under bulky jumpers. She stepped into the heels half certain she’d fall right over and was gratified to find they provided ample support. Sherlock had, quite obviously, thought of everything.

“So who did it?” she called as she leaned over the sink to apply a layer of mascara.

“What a dull question, Joanna,” Sherlock said from the sitting room.

“Because the answer’s obvious, or—” She cut herself off with a muttered curse. The mascara had come out thick and clumpy on her left eyelid. She’d never been good at this, and several years without practice had not helped.

“That, certainly. But you should be asking about the process. If you had any scientific curiosity, any sense of artistry—”

“Can we both assume I’m an imbecile and a philistine and move on with this conversation?” Now there was a dark streak beneath her eye that gave the impression she’d been walking into the furniture. She scrubbed at it with the back of one hand, which of course made matters worse. “It was Henri Renard after all, wasn’t it.”

“Did you work that out logically, or is it a guess?”

“When you thought of him in the first place, that was a guess.”

“It was a starting point for the investigation, not a professional opinion.”

“How did he do it? He didn’t climb through the window, did he?”

“No.”

“If he came through the front door, Paul would have seen him.”

“He did not come in through the front door. Paul did.”

“What?”

“Remember the dog. Seomun said it woke him with its barking. That was Paul coming back inside.”

“Why would he go out if it wasn’t to remove the _Cardinale_?”

“To get the other violin.”

“Sherlock, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Not to you.”

Jo rolled her eyes. “If you’re not going to explain, just leave it. I need to concentrate.”

Once her face no longer looked like it had been painted by a three-year-old, Jo came out into the sitting room to endure Sherlock’s critical appraisal.

“Do I pass muster?”

“Your hair will never do.”

It was hanging loose around her face. The other option was the tight, unattractive braid she’d bullied her fingers into learning, but that would have been worse. “I never know what to do with it at this length. I should have kept it short.”

“Tomorrow you may hack it all off if you like. For tonight, sit.”

She allowed herself to be pushed into the chair and waited for Sherlock to retrieve a heavy brush (not Jo’s) and several long hairpins that had probably entered Sherlock’s possession via a murder victim’s unique and therefore case-solving updo. “You know how to do hair? I assumed you kept it short because you didn’t want to bother.”

“You’re not wrong. Well, not entirely. Lack of inclination doesn’t translate to lack of ability. Now lean back and sit still.”

It was a disarming sensation, the quick and competent hands teasing out the snarls and twining the hair into a knot at the back of her head. If she’d ever thought to imagine this, Jo would have expected Sherlock to be as careless of painful tugs as she was deliberate about the final result, but in fact it was almost pleasant. With the odd disconnect that accompanies particularly strong sense memories, Jo thought of her mother’s hands massaging shampoo through her scalp when she was very small, long fingers sure and reassuring.

Sherlock pushed the last pin into place and made a satisfied noise. Jo brought one tentative hand up to feel it; impossible to tell if it was any good, but she’d trusted Sherlock with more important things. “All right?”

“All right. Your cab will be here in five minutes.”

“You realise how unnerving this is, don’t you?”

“What is?”

“The makeup. The dress, which fits perfectly, by the way. That’s the disturbing part.”

“It could hardly fit worse than the disaster you call a wardrobe. Observation is my vocation, Joanna. Did you think I wouldn’t bother to observe you? Don’t forget the wrap.”

“No, mother,” Jo muttered under her breath.

“Hmm?” Sherlock was absorbed, once again, in whatever she’d found to do on the laptop.

“Nothing. I’ll go get him. You’re certain you’ll be there in time?”

“Yes.”

“With the violin?”

“You know how I tire of useless repetition.”

“Right. Leaving. But when I see you next, I want some answers.”

Sherlock gave a vague wave of one hand, and Jo optimistically decided to interpret this as agreement.

Seomun brightened when he saw her at the door, but when a glance behind her told him she was alone, he drooped visibly. “She’s not here? Have you found it?”

“No, sorry. She has everything in hand, though. You’re meant to get ready as usual, and she said not to worry.”

He did not look convinced. He was dressed for the concert, all but the tuxedo jacket, with his bowtie untied and hanging down around his neck. His left hand clutched a violin bow.

“Are you ready to leave, Mr. Seomun?”

“Nearly. I was hoping—” He broke off with a shake of his head. “She knows where it is, at least?”

“She’s gone to get it now.”

“But where? Miss Watson—”

“Mr. Seomun,” Jo said, making her voice as firm and reassuring as she could, “I have absolute confidence in Sherlock’s word. She’ll be there with your violin before you take the stage. All you need to worry about is the concert. Do you drive yourself?”

“I’m expecting a cab.”

“Do you need anything else?”

He gave her a despairing look. “An instrument.”

“She said you should bring the—the other one, just to warm up. You’ll have the Stradivarius when you need it.”

He wheeled around and disappeared into the house, returning moments later with a violin case tucked under his arm.

They didn’t have long to wait for the cab, but even so Jo found herself glad of the wrap she’d pulled around her shoulders. There was a hard winter chill setting in, and this was nothing to the cold terror emanating from the man sitting beside her. She was put in mind of the needle-shy young boy she’d talked into having his inoculations the day before, and in the end she dealt with it in much the same way, keeping up a steady stream of soothing chatter as the cab carried them through the darkened streets.

When they arrived, Seomun was whisked away to warm up and be greeted. Jo’s presence went unremarked on, for which she was grateful. She took up a position in one of the corridors behind the stage, pacing back and forth in her heels. At length the members of the orchestra came swarming past her in a sea of black and white to take up their positions in the concert hall. Still there was no sign of Sherlock.

“How long have we got?” she asked Seomun, who’d appeared beside her.

“They’re starting with Schubert’s Third,” he said, which meant little to Jo. “I’d say twenty, twenty-five minutes once they begin.”

His voice was flat, his mouth compressed.

“She’ll be here,” Jo said. He didn’t reply.

When the concert began, they could hear faint strains of the music through the side door through which Seomun would shortly be expected to make his entrance. Jo stole a look at her mobile; no messages. She stifled her doubts. Sherlock would appear before long, and it would do Seomun no good if Jo didn’t seem confident in that.

“Dr. Watson?”

The voice was familiar, but not Seomun’s. Jo turned and stared. “Mr. Morstan!”

She hadn’t seen him since the end of the Hammond case. He’d rung her twice, once to confirm receipt of his payment and then again to reiterate his thanks. The former conversation had gone on much longer than it needed to, and the latter had strayed perilously close to the suggestion of a date. She’d wanted it to get there, had nearly let it, and then she’d remembered what a spectacularly bad idea it was to attach herself to someone whose wife had been murdered only a few months ago, and she’d quashed that possibility with all the polite resolve she possessed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, startled into rudeness.

She looked to her right, where Seomun was standing with his arms folded and a frown etched onto his face. “I’m here for Sherlock,” she said. “She has a case on. What are you doing here?”

“Working,” he said, which explained the slim headset tucked over one ear. He was dressed the part, too, all in black with a well-cut suit jacket as a concession to formality. It looked good on him. That was _not_ regret she was feeling.

His thought seemed to be running along the same lines. “You look—”

“Out of my element,” she said. _Awkward and self-deprecating, that’s the ticket_ , Jo thought with disgust.

“Really not where I was going with that,” he said, and smiled his devastating smile. Damn it. “Look, I have to run. Are you staying to the end of the concert?”

“Yes,” she said, not adding that this might come much sooner than expected. “Yes, I think so.”

“All right. Enjoy it. I’ll be here after.” Then he left, leaving things wide open. It was infuriating, really. He’d expressed an interest, backed off when she’d turned him down, and left the next step up to her. It was exactly what Jo would have wanted of him, if she’d wanted anything of him. Which she didn’t. Neither of them was in a good place to start a relationship, she told herself for the umpteenth time.

She was almost grateful for the distraction when the music crashed to a close and someone threw the door open to reveal the long aisle leading to the stage.

“What now?” Seomun asked.

“She’ll be here,” Jo said, stubborn to the last. She walked toward the door, her steps drowned by the applause. Beneath it she could hear genteel stomping from the orchestra. She’d always thought that was a ridiculous practice.

The orchestra leader stood to exchange a brisk handshake with the conductor; the tramping of feet swelled even as the applause died and then rose again; Seomun let out a sigh of despair, and Jo had just steeled herself for utter disaster when she got a really good look at the first violinist. Tall, slender, in an exquisitely tailored tuxedo not actually cut, now she was observing rather than just seeing, for a man at all, topped off by a familiar mop of curls—

“Go,” Jo said. Seomun was going to protest, she could tell, so she put on a little of the tone that had orderlies jumping to obey and said, “ _Go_.” His feet started forward before his mind could catch up, but she could tell when he recognised Sherlock; or more likely, recognised the bright burnished wood of the instrument she held in her left hand.

Jo would have given a great deal to be able to see his face at that moment. She had to settle for Sherlock’s, but that was almost better. Even from a distance it was clear that she was full to bursting with the sheer thrill of it, the exquisite high of a successful case combined with the raptures of the music. It was all tamped down under the superlative control Sherlock displayed precisely when she wanted to, but as she leaned forward to whisper a word in Seomun’s ear her eyes met Jo’s from across the stage, and the look in them was electrifying.

She made her way offstage as the applause faded. “You ass,” Jo said, but she couldn’t keep the amazed smile off her face. “You are _shameless_. Was that necessary?”

“No,” Sherlock said, “but I enjoyed it.”

“How did you—”

“Later, Joanna.” She had lowered her voice. On stage, Seomun was checking his tuning. “The case will keep. I told you I had seats for us. The best in the house, as a matter of fact.”

“Except for the bit where they’re not actually seats.” Sherlock pulled a pair of fold-out chairs from behind the door, and Jo gave up with a shake of her head. “Trust you not to do anything the ordinary way.”

“Shh,” she said, waving for Jo to sit and be quiet.

Depending on how recently they’d had a good case, Sherlock’s musical range extended from hair-raising to ethereal. That night, Alexander Seomun led his audience from the exquisite heights to the resonant depths of tone, and at last Jo could see Sherlock’s point about the relative levels of genius. She sat there with her newly-shaved and sensitive skin caressed by fine silk, wrapped in the music and the brilliance of the woman beside her.

Even Jo could recognise Seomun’s technical skill. He ran through what she could only assume were demanding passages with such ease that it was a delight to watch as well as listen to him. What surprised her was the range of feeling he was able to convey, from fury to melancholy to the pure joy of the last movement, all the despair of the last two days forgotten or ignored.

When it was over, she left Sherlock to wait for him and retreated to the corridor outside. Moments later, she felt a warm presence at her shoulder.

“How was it?” Scott Morstan asked.

“I’m not the one to ask,” she said. “Music is Sherlock’s area.”

His expression changed. “Your shoulder,” he said. Jo followed his gaze down to see that the wrap had slipped down on her left arm, exposing an ugly snarl of scar.

“Oh,” Jo said. “That. Bullet wound in Afghanistan.” He opened his mouth but looked uncertain what to say, and she sighed. “Well, technically not that bit. That’s where we had to dig around to get it out. Battlefield surgery, you know. It gets messy.”

He closed his mouth again, and her skin prickled when he brought his hand up. The tips of his fingers brushed against the bare flesh just past the seam of her dress, and she thought he was going to follow the line of the scar along her shoulder. She could feel herself leaning into it, but he drew back just before they made full contact. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean—you’re amazing, has anyone told you?”

 _Extraordinary…quite extraordinary_ , she thought. “I’ve been an idiot about this,” Jo said, “but I think enough is enough.” And she leaned forward and up, enjoying the extra height from her shoes, and kissed him firmly on the mouth. Nothing fancy, and he was too surprised to really respond, but still she felt something small and warm unfurl in her stomach at the touch of his lips and the scent of his aftershave. She pulled back after a moment and looked squarely at him. “We still have your number. Should I ring you?”

“Yes.” He had the most beautiful eyes, and when he was surprised and happy at the same time they somehow managed to be wide and crinkly all at once. “Yes, you should.”

“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should go find Sherlock. Good night, Scott.”

“Good night, Joanna.”

The warmth in his voice buoyed her up higher than those heels as she wove through the musicians streaming off through the wings. Seomun was just beyond the door, talking intensely with Sherlock, looking dazed with happiness. Perhaps that was just the music, but he was pressing Sherlock’s hand with the strength of profound relief.

“Where was it?” he was asking. Jo rather wanted an answer to the same question.

“Here at the Barbican,” Sherlock said. “It was here right from the beginning, hidden among the Guildhall School’s practice instruments until the thief was able to recover it yesterday morning.”

“But that room isn’t even locked! Why would anyone steal my violin and bring it here?”

“You brought it here yourself, Mr. Seomun. The violin was stolen before you ever returned to your home. The practice closet was simply a convenient hiding place.”

“But the safe, Miss Holmes. They broke into my safe.”

“Yes, and left the door standing suggestively open. It was a diversion meant to distract you from realising that the real theft had taken place hours before. From there it was simply a matter of disposing of the case. That was done easily through the second-storey window, and no harm done without the Stradivarius inside. The bushes are thick enough to provide an excellent hiding spot, and the thief could pick it up whenever it became convenient.”

“The violin was gone before we got home.”

“Yes.”

Jo was just beginning to see where this was going. Seomun was working through it more slowly, but then he hadn’t had the benefit of watching Sherlock’s investigation, and he still looked dazed at the sudden reversal of his fortunes. “So the broken violin my son was holding—that was in the case when it fell?”

“Precisely. If it had been empty, you would have noticed at some point between the rehearsal and putting it back in your safe. It came from the practice closet. I’m sure it was a perfectly serviceable instrument, but under the circumstances the thief considered it a reasonable sacrifice.”

“Are you telling me Paul had nothing to do with this?”

“That, Mr. Seomun, is precisely what I am saying. You owe your son a thorough apology. He has not behaved entirely in a manner of which the police would approve, but I will say that he has not been selfish, and if his silence has harmed you it was in an effort to protect someone about whom you both care a great deal.”

“Ms. Holmes, please tell me what you mean.”

“I mean your goddaughter Marie.” Seomun’s face, which had until now been torn between happiness and confusion, froze in an attitude of disbelief. “Yes, I am quite sure. I have proof, should you require it, though I spoke to her earlier this evening and I think you will have no doubts upon returning home.”

“My Marie could never have done that. _Why_ would she? She loves me.”

“Perhaps she does. But not nearly so much as she loves Henri Renard, and not nearly so bitterly as he hates you.” Now Jo was as lost as Seomun. Sherlock smirked at her confusion. “They met last year when she was in Paris. She took another holiday in the fall to see him, and that was when he proposed the idea.”

“The idea—”

“Of the theft, of course. It was much easier with two than it would have been alone. Your goddaughter knows you well enough to depend on your routines. It was she who exchanged the _Cardinale_ for a practise instrument two days ago while you were otherwise occupied. She left it here where no-one would look twice at it, and Renard retrieved it yesterday morning. You know he gave a master class for the Guildhall students? It was the perfect excuse, and no-one would associate his presence here with a break-in that occurred hours before. Aside from that, Marie rightly believed that you would never think to accuse a concert violinist of burglary. Between the locked windows, the two-storey climb, and the dog waiting downstairs, it was impossible that Renard could have stolen the _Cardinale_ from your home.”

“Where did Paul come in?” Jo asked.

“He was the fly in the ointment. Marie hadn’t accounted for the possibility that you would argue and he would stay downstairs. She waited as long as she could, but she had no choice. In the morning you would discover the switched violins, and she had already agreed on a time for Renard to collect the case from your garden. She dropped the case from the studio as arranged, then locked the window and went back to bed, though I imagine not to sleep. It was pure bad luck that she misjudged her throw and Paul heard the violin land beside the bushes. He went out to investigate. Renard arrived, they struggled, and the case broke open. In the end Renard made off with the case but not the violin. In the poor light, Paul assumed it was the _Cardinale_. He brought it upstairs to view the damage, the dog woke you, and you know the rest of it.”

Seomun had gone pale, his hand clutched around the slender neck of his priceless violin. “That’s a lie.”

“Every word of it is true,” Sherlock said, “as you’ll find when you go back to King’s Pyland. Marie and Renard left for Paris on a six o'clock flight. I had worked out an incomplete version of the story myself, and when I confronted them they confirmed what details Paul had not. I couldn’t very well stop them leaving without alerting the authorities, which I understood you preferred to avoid, but I could threaten to do so if they refused to hand over the violin. In the end, it seems Renard valued his freedom above both the instrument and your disgrace.

“I understand this has come as a shock,” Sherlock added when he made no move to reply. “You may prefer to be philosophical about it, Mr. Seomun. One of your children has been returned, and if I am not very much mistaken another is waiting at home to be reconciled with you. You might consider his feelings in this case. He’s been badly used, and not only by you.”

Seomun stared at her, his expression a mix of fury and disbelief, then turned on his heel and left them standing there in the shadowed hall.

Sherlock shrugged expressively and turned in the other direction, walking along the edge of the stage and up the stairs to the exit at the far end of the hall.

Jo fell in alongside her and took the opportunity to ask the question that had been plaguing her through the second half of the concert: “Why do you own a tuxedo?”

A twitch of the lips was her only response.

“It looks good on you.” That earned her a lift of the eyebrows, and Jo had to smile. “I hear androgyny’s in for the fall.”

Sherlock let out a low “Ha!” of amusement and let her head fall back, exposing the long white line of her throat over the bowtie and pressed collar. She was in a sublimely good mood, and Jo wondered how much of that could be put down to the successful resolution of the case and how much to the music. Certainly she seemed not to care about Seomun’s reaction.

“At least you were paid in full,” Jo said. “So, can you tell the difference?”

Sherlock didn’t need to ask what she meant. She thought about it, then said, “Between my own violin and a Stradivarius, certainly. It is an extraordinary instrment. Between the Cardinale and the handful of other top-tier professional instruments I have had the privilege of handling, no.” She actually sounded disappointed, though Jo thought someone who didn’t know her well might not have realised it. “Sentiment, Joanna. The Stradivarius fixation is nothing more than sentiment and the superstitious allure of a legend.”

“Well, your sample size is a little small to say for certain, isn’t it?” Sherlock frowned, and Jo went on. “I mean, a truly scientific study would require repetition.”

“True,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “Joshua Bell is coming to London in November to play Ravel and Saint-Saens. I wonder what the chances are that a similar fate might befall his instrument.”

“Sherlock,” Jo said, a little anxious. Sherlock looked back at her with wide-eyed innocence. Jo sighed and made a mental note to keep an eye on the papers. She wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to arrange such a thing, so long as it was in the interest of science. Not to mention artistic curiosity.

Sherlock ignored her in favour of stepping out of the concert hall and into the chill night air. Jo shivered, the thin glide of silk against her skin little protection against the cold. It felt terribly decadent.

“Now, my dear Joanna, I believe we have just enough time for a late dinner at Angelo’s.”

“In these clothes?”

“I don’t see why not. Will you join me, or do you have further business with Mr. Morstan?”

Jo smiled. “I certainly do, but not tonight. Angelo’s it is. You can explain how you tracked down Renard while we’re in the cab.”

********

Two weeks later, a long package was hand-delivered to their door. Jo signed for it, though it had Sherlock’s name on the front.

“Sherlock,” she called once the delivery man had gone, “have you ordered anything?”

“Some biological samples, but I had those sent to Barts. Apparently the Royal Mail frowns upon sending human organs to to private addresses. Why do you ask?”

“There’s a package here for you. Who would send you anything?” A thought struck her, and she stopped halfway up the stairs, her heart in her throat. Her hand, which had begun to twitch ever so slightly again at this gap between cases, went utterly still. “You don’t suppose a bomber—”

“No,” said Sherlock, appearing on the landing. “I keep very close track of all the explosives experts with whom I have professional dealings. I can name several who might want me dead, but none of them is in any position to be sending me packages.” Jo decided not to follow that train of thought any farther. Instead she handed over the box. “There’s not much to be gained from the outside,” Sherlock said, peering at it as they walked back upstairs. “I can conclude almost nothing about the sender except that he was located somewhere between Hoxton Square and Haggerston Park. About the delivery man, on the other hand, I can say that he has a particular fondness for Vindaloo and a habit of taking much longer lunch breaks than he is probably allowed.”

“If it’s not a bomb, then you could just open it.”

Sherlock pulled the penknife out of the mantelpiece and proceeded to do so. Under the tape and brown cardboard she found a flat layer of foam padding, which Jo plucked off immediately to forestall any further analysis. Under that was a violin case.

Sherlock lifted it out with care, pausing to run one long hand along the neck, and then flipped the clasps up and opened the lid.

“The Pollastri,” she said with something approaching reverence.

There was a note in the bottom of the case. While Sherlock’s eyes were greedily devouring every inch of the instrument, Jo picked that up and read it. “It says it’s from—”

“Seomun, of course,” Sherlock said. “You told him we’d stopped at Goldblum’s.”

“I did?”

“You must have done.”

“That’s right,” said Jo, remembering. “I was trying to distract him on the way to the concert. I’m surprised he remembered, though. I didn’t think he heard a word of it.” The gift was extravagant, even considering that Sherlock had never received any monetary reward for recovering the _Cardinale_. Then, too, it seemed oddly personal for a business transaction. Jo frowned at the card in her hands. “He says he owed you more thanks than he gave at the time. Why do you suppose he changed his mind?”

“ _Sentiment_ ,” Sherlock said, tearing her eyes away from the violin. Her lip curled disdainfully. “I suspect he’s made his peace with his son. I did tell Paul it was time he explained.”

“Explained what, exactly? You never said.”

“Explained what he was doing out until all hours of the night, why he needed the money, and why his fingernails smelled like the underside of a bonnet. It took me all of five seconds and a glance at his room to work it out, but his father seemed determined not to know.”

“Does this have something to do with headlight brazing?”

“It does. For the last eight months, Paul Seomun has been working long hours as a mechanic at a 24-hour garage in Islington. He hopes to buy a half share of the business when one of the owners retires in the spring.” Sherlock had taken the violin out of its case, and as she spoke her right hand plucked at the strings, sounding them out and correcting their tuning as needed. Jo listened absently as she absorbed this information. “He’s a much pleasanter young man when he’s not being falsely accused of theft.”

“Wait, you’re admitting a personal fondness for a client?”

“It was an objective assessment. And he was a suspect, technically speaking.”

“Well, that’s different, then,” said Jo, amused.

Sherlock set the violin under her chin and eyed Jo down the length of its body. “Quite different. He proved useful, you see. Hand me that bow. He explained some of the basics of auto mechanics, since I’d gone to all the bother of tracking him down.”

“As a bribe, you mean, not to tell Seomun what he’d been up to.”

“Imagine the pressure of having that sort of father, Joanna. Seomun offered him the world on a platter. The only difficulty was that he also expected him to eat it. Paul’s very conscious of having been a disappointment.”

“He must be. Eight months, and his father never suspected what he was really doing?”

“Ah!” Sherlock said, her eyelids falling closed as she drew the bow along two of the strings. She tried another pair and must have heard a sour note, because she opened her eyes again, the better to adjust the tuning peg. It was a moment before she picked up the conversation. “It’s not such a surprise. Paul took some care to hide it, and you may have noticed that not everyone takes the effort to be aware of those around them.”

Jo thought of the dress tucked carefully into her closet upstairs. She’d probably never have the chance to wear it again, but it had looked damned good on her. “That’s true,” she said, smiling a little, and sank into the armchair with a comfortable sigh. “What do you want to play first?”

Sherlock raised one narrow eyebrow. “If I told you, would you recognise it?”

“Probably not, but it would make it easier to put it in the blog.”

That earned her twenty minutes of atonal scraping, but Sherlock was too taken with the gift to keep it up for long. In the end she subsided into something first low and lovely, then high and almost unbearably sweet. Jo didn’t bother to guess at the period or composer. Instead she sat still and listened, and the hand resting on her knee didn’t tremble at all.


	7. The Long Game (Section 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get a little too interesting, and Jo Watson grapples with moral liabilities and minor miracles.

Illustration by [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sleightofhand/profile)[ **sleightofhand**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sleightofhand/)

 

 

Jo Watson liked to think of herself as a patient person. She could handle the occasional biohazard in the kitchen sink, and she could ignore the interminable sulking. Still, she had her limits, and apparently the recreational use of firearms in their sitting room followed by a series of petulant insults had crossed some sort of line, which was how she found herself walking back from someone else’s flat on a cold morning. It was not so much the Walk of Shame as the Walk of My-Flatmate-is-Certifiable, and she was still sufficiently incensed from the night before to take her time about it.

She’d considered going to Scott’s, where she knew she’d have been offered the guest bed, no questions asked, but she hadn’t wanted to inflict her bad mood on him, and to be honest she preferred to take this as slow as either of them could stand it.

Sarah had wanted to know all the details. She’d made the offer of her Li-Lo with a cup of tea in hand so it came out easily enough once Jo had made a few pistol-shaped redactions. The tea had turned into a bottle of wine (or two, but who was counting?) and hours of bad telly as they both got progressively tipsier.

“You know what I think?” Sarah had said at half one, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of some unreasonably attractive woman sobbing about her complicated love life. “I think you need a holiday.”

“I definitely need a holiday,” Jo agreed, a little more emphatically than she would have two glasses earlier. “I need a holiday from Sherlock Bleeding Holmes, that’s what I need.”

“And from London.”

“ _And_ from London.”

“And I need some country air. What are you doing this weekend?”

What she was doing that weekend, it seemed, was joining Sarah at an old school friend’s B&B up in Herefordshire, where they would do nothing but eat ridiculously good food and sleep in until ten every morning. “It won’t cost a thing,” Sarah said earnestly, watching Jo tip out the last few drops of wine. “She said she’s always got an extra room or two this time of year, and I’m to bring someone up any time I like. I _think_ she meant a male friend, but lately I can’t be arsed to find one. They’re all so predictable, men.”

“Mmm,” Jo said, then cracked a yawn that set Sarah into a fit of giggles, and when they tried to inflate the Li-Lo they made such a bad job of it (which was hilarious too, of course) that she ended up on the couch after all. This was much less hilarious the next morning when she woke slightly hung-over and with a bad crick in her neck. Sarah stumbled out of bed in much the same shape and set about making coffee, blessed coffee, as they tried to pretend an interest in the outside world. Jo turned the news off in the middle of a report about some long-lost painting. Neither of them was in any state to care about fine art.

Over toast and still more coffee, they agreed that they’d had the right idea the night before, no matter what state they’d been in at the time. They’d meet at Victoria Station Friday morning, no mobiles, no flatmates, and certainly no handgun. Sarah declared that they’d have themselves a relaxing holiday if it was the last thing they did.

Jo would come to regret that phrasing.

Barts wasn’t precisely on the way to Baker Street, but she wasn’t prepared to deal with Sherlock just yet, and a long, bracing walk would give her the time to resign herself to the prospect. Her coat wasn’t thick enough to keep out the creeping cold, and by the time she approached the hospital she’d begun to shiver. Damn her post-Afghanistan constitution. She was just across the street from the Criterion, so she darted inside to stand in line for some overpriced espresso.

“Morning, Jo,” said a familiar voice at her elbow, and she turned to see Mike Stamford at a table near the counter. “Just stopped in?”

Before she could reply, she caught sight of the man he was sitting with. “Good Lord,” he said, eyes going wide. “Jo Watson?”

“In the flesh,” Jo said, reaching for his hand before she could stop herself. “Good to see you, Phil.” The truth was that she would have preferred Mike to be getting coffee with just about anyone else, her sister and Mycroft Holmes included. She hadn’t laid eyes on Phil Sutton in years, but the brush of his palm against hers came as an awkward reminder that there was a time when they had seen a great deal of one another. He was even better looking now, settling into his early forties with a particular brand of self-assurance that told her the charming arrogance that had so perversely attracted her to a clever classmate had mellowed, but not disappeared, in the intervening years. Jo wondered if she’d always gravitated toward that type. It was something to bring up with Ginzberg.

“You look great,” he said, which was also a lie, and Jo couldn’t remember that they’d ever had to mince words before. "You’ve lost weight.”

It wasn’t really a compliment, Jo knew. Just before her medical evacuation and discharge she’d been toned, athletic, her well-fed and well-exercised form rather too substantial to be fashionable, but more than a few men had found it appealing. Phil would have been no exception. Months later she was as shrunken in muscle as in curves, and the kindest word that could be applied to her now was ‘wiry’.

She gave him her most self-deprecating smile. “In the service we call it the lead diet. Works like a charm if you don’t mind the side-effects and the physical therapy.” It took him a minute to parse that. Mike looked a little alarmed, but Jo rather enjoyed watching Phil try to hide his shock. “I thought you’d left the city.”

“Couldn’t keep away,” Phil said. “I’m not sure I ever really left Barts. I’ve done a fair bit of lecturing here and consulted whenever I could, and last month something opened up in Endocrinology. I moved back just last week.”

Jo nodded politely. “Speaking of moving, Mike, I’m glad I ran into you. I wanted to thank you. The rooms are perfect, and the rent is better than I’d hoped for.”

“What about the company?”

 _Thirty-six hours after you introduced us, I shot a man to save her life_ , was the first answer that came to mind, but she could hardly say that. The second was, _Yesterday I walked in her peppering our walls with bullets, but I’ll still probably stop for milk and nicotine patches on the way home_. That just made her sound as pathetic as she probably was. “I’ve learned not to eat anything I find in the kitchen that isn’t still in its original packaging, but we’re getting on all right.”

Phil gave them an inquiring look. Mike returned it with a sly, expectant sort of smile and said, “I found Jo a flatmate a few months ago. She’s rooming with Sherlock Holmes.”

“With _her_?”

Mike was enjoying this far too much. “You’ve met, then,” Jo said, as blandly as she could.

“In passing,” Phil said. He looked a bit shellshocked. “A few times. A few times too many, in fact. Have you heard what she gets up to around here? She’s got some sort of fetish for corpses.”

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Jo said, but she could tell it hadn’t penetrated.

“Last year she told one of the fellows’ wives that her husband was having an affair. In front of about half a dozen people, no less. I still can’t work out how she knew.”

Right, well, there wasn’t any way to put a positive spin on that, even if Jo had been inclined to defend her. “I wouldn’t call her a humanitarian.”

“She’s a bitch,” Phil said frankly. Mike’s expression went flat, and he gave Jo a wary look that made her wonder if it was obvious her hackles had gone up. Phil wasn’t watching her. Instead he chuckled and shook his head. “Still, if you can put up with it…what do you two get up to? Paint each other’s toenails, talk about blokes?”

“Something like that.”

Now even Phil had noticed he was treading on dangerous ground. Things were about to get very uncomfortable. Mike took this as his cue to step back in.

“Where’d you end up?” he asked. “I know she was looking at a place in Central London.”

“We’re on Baker Street, right near the tube stop.”

Phil raised his well-formed eyebrows. “Bit of a day you’ve had, then. Come out to escape the reporters?”

“Sorry, what?”

“The gas leak last night,” Mike said, which clarified nothing. “Would’ve been right near you, wouldn’t it? They said you could hear it for blocks.”

Jo shook her head as something twisted in her chest. “I spent the night at a friend’s. What are you talking about?”

The two men exchanged a look. “There was an explosion,” Phil said at last. “It’s been all over the news. You really haven’t heard?” He held out the morning paper, folded over to show a blasted facade that was still instantly recognisable as the view from her sitting room windows.

There was an odd buzzing in her ears. “I—” she said, then discovered she didn’t know how to end that. She reached for her mobile. No new messages. “Sorry.” As she sprinted for the door, she heard the barrista calling her name.

********

Sherlock was fine. Mrs. Hudson was fine. Even the flat was fine, more or less, though they’d need to get someone in to do the windows as soon as possible. Everything was fine, but even so Jo never came down from her adrenaline high for long enough to spend time resenting Phil Sutton’s continued existence, because suddenly they had a case. And then another case. And then they started to bleed into one another under the influence of sleep deprivation and dizzying danger until Sherlock recovered the flash drive with the submarine plans, and by that time Jo had given up her mental protests that this was ridiculous. Her life had turned into something unrecognisable, half farce and half high-speed thriller and all magnificent, really.

She sat on the couch and listened to Sherlock rant at the television as she listened to all the voicemails she’d been ignoring for the past few days. Scott had rung twice. God, she was turning out to be a crap girlfriend.

 _So sorry—Sherlock happened,_ she texted. _Would like to come over if Im not in the doghouse_.

As she waited hopefully for a response, a thought occurred to her. “What day is it?”

Sherlock frowned at her. “Thursday.”

“Oh, hell,” Jo said, dropping her head back against the couch. “Is it really?”

Sherlock’s replies to rhetorical questions tended to be either literal or scathing, so it was probably just as well that she didn’t say anything to that.

“Look,” Jo said, “I’ve told Sara I’ll take a weekend off with her. You’re certain everything’s all right here?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said.

“You’re sure? Because I’d—just a moment.” Scott had texted back to say he was just finishing up a rehearsal, but she’d be welcome at his in about an hour. She really didn’t deserve him. “Right, I’m out to see Scott for a bit. I won’t be in for tea. I think there’s some of that risotto left.”

“Mmm.”

“Milk, we need milk.”

“I’ll get some,” Sherlock said, which should have sent alarm bells ringing all over the place. Instead Jo put in a request for beans and left, an optimistic spring in her step. Sherlock never even looked at her.

Jo Watson should never have been shot. She was a woman, which still meant more than it ought to have done, and she was a doctor, which meant far more in terms of conservation of resources. She should have come home from Afghanistan bruised in psyche but physically intact, or failing that it should have been an IED under the wheels of a medical transport. It had only happened because, as it turned out, she was brilliant at getting herself into and out of trouble, and she also had a knack for being in exactly the wrong place at exactly the right time. This had led to her accepting missions she’d otherwise have been forbidden to touch, joining patrols that would ordinarily have been the purview of combat technicians, and growing accustomed to using the skills she’d developed at the firing range without ever violating the RAMC’s cardinal rule of shooting only in self-defense. Still, her particular brand of luck had to run out on occasion. The first time that had happened she’d needed emergency evacuation, thirty pints of A negative, and two dozen separate surgeries to put her shoulder back together. This time it was subtler but no less sudden. Two blocks from Baker Street, she felt a sharp prick to the side of her neck, and she had a half second of confusion followed by a half second of furious disbelief before someone cut the volume and turned out the lights.

When everything faded back in, she was lying on something hard and cold. She woke gradually enough to recognise the need to remain still and quiet, to assess her situation before her captors realised the drugs had worn off. Someone had removed her coat, but she still wore the boots she’d had on when she left the flat, and the rest of her clothing seemed likewise intact. She would probably find the time to be relieved about that, much later when she had the leisure for things like relief. Her gun was very definitely not at her side, but that was because she’d left it in her dresser drawer.

It was quiet in the sort of way rooms with good acoustics are quiet. An irregular drip of water came from a faucet somewhere nearby, but otherwise there was no movement that Jo could hear. She gathered herself and opened her eyes to a tiled wall lined with of lockers.

She sat up slowly, putting a hand out to brace herself against the inevitable wave of nausea. She was on a wide bench in what was unquestionably a men’s locker room, and she was quite alone.

The fluorescent lights were going to give her a headache. She closed her eyes again and took a moment to gather herself before standing, found her legs solid underneath her, and was just about to make very deliberately for the door when it opened.

“You?”

Molly’s boyfriend, or, she supposed, the man pretending to be Molly’s boyfriend, gave her a delighted smile. “Oh, good, Joanna. We’re ready for you now.”

In situations like this, it was better to stick to the concrete details. Sherlock could explain everything once she’d got herself out of this mess. “We?” So far as Jo could see, he had come alone, but then it stood to reason that he’d have needed at least a few more people to snatch her off the street.

“You didn’t think I’d be here without backup,” he said, pushing his hands into the pockets of his (no doubt very expensive) suit. “You’ll be dead at a word from me. They’re very loyal, these men of mine, but they prefer not to be seen when they can avoid it.”

“You don’t mean to kill me, then.”

“That’s one possibility,” he said. There was an odd lilt to his voice, as though he was entertaining a very small child, but Jo couldn’t tell if that was for her benefit or his own. “You could walk out of here alive and well, but that depends on two things. The first is that you do exactly what I tell you. A former soldier, Sherlock’s loyal lapdog—you’re very good at following orders, aren’t you?”

She would not rise to the bait. “What’s the second? No, I can guess. I ring Sherlock for a little chat, and she solves the case before you decide my time is up.”

He actually rocked back on to his heels, a giddy gleam in his eye. “Wrong! We’ve done that already, and you know how bored Sherlock gets. And anyhow she’s already solved _this_ case.”

“Then what am I doing here?”

“You’re going to be my assistant in a little demonstration, Joanna. Shall we practice following orders? Turn around, please, and open the locker behind you.”

It wasn’t locked. Inside there was a thick winter coat, the hood rimmed round with false fur, and in the top compartment—

“You know this part,” he said, voice soft but very close. “Take it out—carefully, my dear!—and hand it over.”

The explosives had been rigged up as an ungainly sort of vest. She pulled it slowly from the locker, her hands firm and unwavering. He took and opened it, apparently unfazed at handling the same tool he’d used to such lethal effect earlier that week, and held it out for her in a twisted mockery of gallantry.

Jo threaded each arm inside and felt the wires settle around her in a macabre embrace. She wanted to shiver out of her own skin, but with a supreme effort she kept her face blank and stepped into the coat when so instructed.

She was no explosives expert. She knew men who could glance at the little plastic bricks strapped to her body and tell her how close a soldier in body armour could stand and still hope to walk away after the detonation. They could probably tell her how much of the building would come crumbling down around her when she blew, even factoring in the water just beyond that door. Jo had worked out where she was by then. Her funny little brain might have not have been operating anywhere close to maximum capacity, but the smell of chlorine hung thick and heavy in the air. No need to ask which pool.

No need to have the experts there to tell her another thing, either: she was wearing enough Semtex to rip right through the man with the singsong voice. She thought for a moment about what she could do with that information.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, giving her a knowing look.

“It might be worth it,” she said. “I’d be doing a public service. You’re Moriarty, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes,” he said. He was mad, he must be. She told herself there was no other explanation for the unholy glee she saw in his eyes, trying all the while to forget that she’d seen it in Sherlock’s as well. “But you won’t do it. I’m sure you _would_ , Joanna, if you were really at the end of your rope, but for a woman with a death wish you have a remarkable sense of self-preservation. Quite the little paradox, aren’t we?”

She would not gnash her teeth at this man.

“But no, you won’t. You’re still hoping to make it through this alive.” He reached up and patted her cheek. She wanted desperately to flinch and settled for closing her eyes so she didn’t have to watch him do it. “That’s my girl,” he crooned. “Just hold still now.”

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t what she got. Clever little fingers teased at her ear, and she felt him insert a small object. She looked up to find his smiling face mere inches from hers. “We wouldn’t want you succumbing to stage fright and forgetting all your lines,” he said. “Don’t worry. You’ll have a prompter. There’s no need to be nervous. Just remember, my dear, you’re only filling in until our leading lady arrives.”

Jo’s throat went dry. “She’s coming here?”

“Entertaining as you are, I was hoping for a little intelligent conversation. You understand.” He stepped back and looked her over. “ _Very_ good. Now wait here for your big entrance, there’s a doll.”

The aftereffects of the tranquilliser faded, leaving behind a nightmarish clarity unlike anything in the war. Jo thrummed with adrenaline, terror and anger coursing through her veins with no outlet. She had no wound to stanch, no gun to aim, nothing to do but wait. Then Sherlock arrived, which somehow made it worse.

In the space of five minutes she saw a wider range of emotions cross Sherlock’s face than she had in the entire time they’d roomed together. She’d brought the gun, not that it helped; Jo’s one abortive attempt at getting the upper hand ended with the dance of a laser sight across Sherlock’s forehead, and by the time Moriarty took his leave he’d made it quite clear he was the one in control.

It was a bit anticlimactic, really. Before Jo could do more than draw a relieved breath, Sherlock her ripped the vest right off her. Jo’s legs gave out. Both of them went at once, making psychosomatic injuries a bit superfluous.

Sherlock was humming with nervous energy. The muzzle of the handgun beat out a nervous tattoo against her thigh. It was uncontrolled, purposeless motion, and Jo might have offered her life for this ridiculous woman but she wasn’t about to let Sherlock put an accidental bullet through either of them. “I’m glad no-one saw that,” Jo said, and cracked a joke that wasn’t all that terribly funny. It did the job, though. Sherlock lit up with relief, and Jo put out a hand. “I’ll take that, thanks.”

She gave Jo the gun without argument. Jo checked the safety, gave herself a moment to feel the comforting weight of the weapon in her palm, and then levered herself off the floor.

Sherlock had turned away to stare at the coat and vest lying sprawled on the tile.

“We should leave it for the Yard,” Jo said.

“Hmm?”

“Serial killers and smuggling rings I can deal with, but those are explosives, Sherlock. You’re as likely to get us blown up as find any evidence now. We should ring Lestrade.” Sherlock turned her head, and Jo caught the flash of surprise in her eyes. “Please.”

“I know my way around a detonator,” Sherlock said, but she didn’t sound offended. She sounded something else, something Jo couldn’t quite place.

“Fine,” Jo said, exhausted. “You go right ahead. I’m getting some air.”

She turned to go, choosing the door Sherlock had used rather than the one through which Moriarty had made his unnecessarily dramatic exit. She hadn’t meant to be combative, hadn’t meant anything other than that she needed it all to stop for just a few minutes, but there was no predicting how Sherlock would react to these things.

It came as a relief when the echoes of her feet on the tile were joined by a second pair. Jo stopped at the door and waited for Sherlock to catch her up.

“You’re not going to leave him alone,” Jo said as they stepped out into the cold night. “Even he doesn’t think you’ll stop.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth were pulled tight, but this was a frown of concentration, not whatever Moriarty had shaken out of her back in the pool. This Jo could deal with. “He won’t be easy to find.”

“We have a name.”

“An alias, surely. And he won’t have been so accommodating as to leave fingerprints behind.”

“But he did,” Jo said. Sherlock went still. “He opened the door to the locker room, and he touched the Semtex when—”

Ten paces behind, as always, Jo thought, because Sherlock had already spun on her heel when it occurred to her that there was something very wrong with that. The scene before her shuddered to a halt, Sherlock hovering in indecision over which way to run, the door still midway open and the lights in the corridor beyond still casting a baleful glow. Then Jo caught up, much later than she ought to have done. She reached out for Sherlock’s sleeve to hold her fast, but her fist closed on empty air.

And the walls came tumbling down.

********

Jo couldn’t feel anything except the very tips of the fingers on her right hand. She couldn’t hear anything above the ringing. It was deafening and muffled at the same time, like a thousand church-bells through a half mile of cotton wool. Her whole existence was reduced to what she could feel with those five bits of skin. On the one hand, this likely meant she’d done something awful to her spine. On the other, she suspected the alternative was searing pain, so she might as well enjoy the lack of sensation while it lasted.

When at length she remembered she had eyes to open, she blinked through a haze of tears until she recognized the long dark rectangle above her as the sky and the paler bit next to that as the roof of the sport center. Evidently they hadn’t brought the whole building down with them. Jo was still fairly certain her eyes were in the front of her head, so by process of elimination she was lying on her back. Also, she was probably not dead.

“Sherlock,” she tried. It was just an experiment, not one she expected to work, but her ears cleared with a little _pop_ and she thought it might be worth another go. “Sherlock.” This time she could hear it even over the whine of sirens in the distance.

“Joanna,” came a voice she didn’t recognise at all. Something tugged against her hand. Jo tightened her grip on whatever it was, because if that was all she could feel she didn’t want to let go. It beat rhythmically against the tip of her index finger. A wrist, she thought. She’d got hold of Sherlock after all. She let her eyes drift shut as the sirens came closer.

The next few hours were a hazy blur of questions she couldn’t answer and competent paramedics doing unpleasant things during an ambulance ride whose details were fuzzy at best. When her head cleared enough to process events in a chronological order, someone was shining a light in her eyes, hateful man, and asking her name. She had the sense it wasn’t the first time she’d been posed this question.

“Jo Watson,” she said. “I’m a doctor.”

“Fantastic,” said the A&E consultant in a tone that implied this was anything but. “So am I. Do you remember what happened?”

“A roof fell on me,” she said, and giggled, because his face had the same expression Lestrade’s had when she’d said just the opposite. Then she stopped laughing, because it made everything hurt.

“You’re in pain?”

“Yes. That’s good. I thought I’d broken my neck.”

“That’d be the shock,” he said calmly. “You’ve bunged up your back a bit, to use a technical term, but I don’t think you’ll have to worry about permanent damage. Don’t try to sit up. We’re going to give you a sedative.”

“I’m not concussed?”

“Pupil response looks good. Do you feel nauseous?”

She considered it. “No. But I don’t want a sedative.”

“You’re in pain, and I don’t want you doing something still worse to your spine.”

“All right.” Apparently shock made her more tractable. She’d have to tell Sherlock later. The thought made her start, and the doctor put a restraining hand to her shoulder. “Sherlock. Where is she?”

“Here.” Jo rolled her eyes to the right until she could see black curls and skin even paler than usual. Sherlock was sitting on the next bed over. Her eyes were closed, and something looked wrong with her posture.

Jo squirmed under the doctor’s hand. “You’re hurt. How bad is it?”

“Not hurt. Thinking.”

“Sherlock—”

“Stop moving,” the consultant interrupted. “Your friend is more or less fine and will probably stay that way if she doesn’t turn any of our charge nurses homicidal.”

“Good,” Jo said. “Tell her to be nice.”

“I will. Have you got any allergies?”

“No.”

“Of course you have,” Sherlock said, her eyes snapping open. “Sulfa drugs give you contact dermatitis. You may also have a mild intolerance to formaldehyde, but I haven’t been able to verify that.”

The doctor quirked his eyebrows, and Jo sighed. “She’s probably right. Didn’t they ask me about allergies in the ambulance?”

“We’ve asked you twice. All you’d say was ‘cyanide’, so I thought it was worth a followup.”

“Sulfa drugs and formaldehyde, then. But I don’t want any cyanide either.”

“I’ll make a note of it. Hold still.” The needle slid into her arm with a faint prick. He gave her knee a professional sort of pat, told her a nurse would be by shortly, and moved on to the next disaster.

“He wanted us alive,” Sherlock said, her eyes closed once again.

It took Jo a moment to change tracks. Her head still wasn’t working very well. “Moriarty?”

“Mmm.”

Jo sighed and settled into her pillow as a heavy lassitude spread along her limbs. She wished she’d asked the doctor what he was giving her. “I know he did. I can tell by the not being dead yet.”

“The question is why.”

“A better question is whether he’s going to change his mind.” It was an unsettling thought given her current degree of vulnerability. Something of Jo’s concern must have been obvious, because Sherlock shook her head.

“The doctor who just injected something into your arm is in Mycroft’s direct employ.”

Jo blinked, grasping at consciousness with fading strength. “How do you know?”

“I phoned him.”

That, Jo thought, meant something rather important, but she was in no state to work out what. “What did you say?”

“Go to sleep, Joanna.”

She didn’t have it in her to argue.

********

She woke to a pleasant haze of painkillers and the sight of her sister in the bedside chair.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Jo,” Harry said.

For a moment she couldn’t remember if she was in Camp Bastion after the evacuation or in Birmingham after her sixth surgery, but then she realised she didn’t hurt nearly enough for it to be either of those.

Harry’s big, sea-green eyes were rimmed with red and her face was puffy, but she looked and sounded dead sober. That was something, Jo thought. “What were you thinking?”

“Yes, the building falling on my head was clearly my fault,” Jo said. Her throat was dry and chalky. “Hand me a glass of water, would you?”

“I’m not here to wait on you,” Harry said, but she got the water anyway and pushed the button to raise the bed.

Drinking gave her a moment to collect herself and evaluate her situation. It was a private room, which smacked of Mycroft’s influence. This was nice in terms of privacy but also meant she was shut in with the sister she hadn’t seen in three months. That could only end badly. “Why are you here?”

“They rang me a few hours ago to say you’d been in a roof collapse. Of course I came.” She’d forgotten that Harry was still listed as her emergency contact. “Only it wasn’t just a collapse, was it? The police came and went while you were out. They wanted to know about a bomb.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m sure,” Harry said shakily. “I’m sure there’s a very long explanation for why you’ve got yourself blown up and put in hospital. Again. And I’m sure I’ll be able to read all about it on your blog, but just now I’m not interested in what you write for your psychiatrist. I want to know what you were thinking.”

“It’s not as though I went out of my way—”

“I don’t want excuses.”

“What do you want?” Jo asked, trying and failing to keep the anger at bay. “What am I meant to owe you now, Harry?”

Harry stopped, stared at Jo with her mouth half open, and then burst into tears.

They were both sitting on the bed by the time the doctor came in, Harry’s head on Jo’s shoulder and Jo’s hand tracing soothing circles across her sister’s back.

“Feeling better, I see,” said the consultant she’d seen the night before. “May I borrow my patient for a moment?”

Harry retreated to the chair, wiping furiously at her face, while he looked Jo over with impressive efficiency. “It’s mostly superficial,” he said. “You were lucky. We gave you a cortisone injection and analgesics for the lumbar strain. That’s going to give you some trouble.”

It was already, even through the fog of drugs. “What’s wrong with my shoulder? Dislocated?”

“No, just some nasty bruising, but it’s right on top of all your scar tissue, so I don’t wonder that it feels worse.” He glanced at Harry, who was threatening tears again. “Do you want me to run through the whole thing? Those were the worst of it.”

Which was not very professional, but no doubt Mycroft’s pet physician could afford to bend a few rules. “That’s fine. Just get me a copy of the chart.”

“You already know what I’m going to say.”

“Back brace, NSAIDs, and a good muscle relaxant.”

“Have you got a preferred brand?” Jo waved a hand, and he nodded. “I’ll pick your poison. You’ve forgotten one thing, though: rest. I will insist on that.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Dr. Watson.” This was in a severe tone that said quite clearly that he might not know all the details of who she lived with and what they did, but he was a doctor with the full weight of the British shadow government behind him, and she had better listen.

“Yes, sir. Rest.”

“That’s better. Your friend is waiting outside.” Waiting, of course, being a euphemism for something much less polite and more—Sherlock. “Should I send her in?”

“Please do. And thank your employer for me if you get the chance.”

He nodded again and left them.

Harry sniffed wetly. “I met your _friend_. She’s a right terror.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. Was she all right?”

“Arm in a sling, but she looked as healthy as an underfed horse and sounded like a very posh banshee. I assume that’s normal.”

“That’s her.” And that was her, pushing through the door as though the very existence of hospital regulations was an offense to her dignity, which it probably was. She’d found time to change into another one of those gorgeous suits and, as usual, made Jo feel like a crumpled mess in comparison.

Sherlock ignored Harry and gave Jo an impenetrable look. “Lestrade wants your statement.”

“Since when do you care what Lestrade wants?”

“He won’t let me at the forensics file until you’ve given it,” she said. “I need access to that file, Joanna.”

“What you need is to bugger off,” said Harry. “She was unconscious ten minutes ago.”

“She was sedated,” Sherlock said in the tone she usually reserved for Anderson. “She’s perfectly fine.”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you? You were the one who got Jo into this. She’d never have walked into that building if it hadn’t been for you.” That showed a poor grasp of the facts, but explaining she’d been drugged and taken there by a madman with a thing for Sherlock wasn’t any better.

Sherlock gave Harry a withering glare that would have decimated anyone less filled with righteous sisterly indignation. “Joanna is fully capable of deciding where she wants to be.”

Harry seized on the name, of all things. “Why do you keep calling her that? Nobody calls her that!”

“ _I_ call her that,” Sherlock said, sufficiently surprised to lose track of the argument. “Mrs. Hudson calls her that. Everyone does.”

“Only the people you know,” Jo said. “And they only call me that because you do.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted between her and Harry as she processed this. She looked affronted to realise there was anything about Jo she hadn’t managed to deduce on her own. “Irrelevant,” she said at last. “Nicknames are facile and childish.”

“Well argued,” Jo said, wincing when her back chose that moment to spasm. “Look, I’m not entirely sure but I think I’ve just been discharged. Can we leave?”

“Gladly,” Sherlock said.

“Excellent. Go get us a cab, will you? And they’re going to give me a copy of my chart. See how soon they’ll have it ready.”

Sherlock raised a disdainful eyebrow. “You don’t expect me to—”

“Run my errands? No. Not really. Show some scrap of consideration? I can hope. I want out, Sherlock, and then you can get back to examining little bits of blown-up pool tile to your heart’s content, but I’m not speaking to Lestrade until we’re back in Baker Street. Make it happen.”

Sherlock stared at her. When Jo didn’t back down, she whirled around and disappeared into the corridor. Jo wanted to shout at her to be careful she didn’t jar her arm, but that would have ruined the effect.

Jo steeled herself and turned back to her sister.

“I can’t do this,” Harry said, wrapping her arms around her chest. “I can’t not know where you are or what you’re doing for months on end until someone rings me in the middle of the night to tell me you’ve nearly got yourself killed, and can I drive down to Barts or run out to Birmingham, for God’s sake, and pick up the pieces.”

“You don’t have to pick up anything,” Jo said. “Have I ever asked you to burden yourself—”

“That’s not what I meant. Pay attention. I’ll show up when you need me, you’ve done it often enough, but I can’t do it blind, Jo. I need to know what you’re doing to yourself.”

There were plenty of things she could have said to that, starting with a pointed question about what Harry had been doing to herself lately, but Jo knew they’d both end up hating her for it. “All right,” she said. “What’s it to be? Weekly phone calls?”

“I don’t want to be a footnote in your diary,” Harry said, indignant despite her trembling lower lip.

“Let’s start with weekly phone calls,” Jo said gently, “and why don’t we get coffee tomorrow? My treat.”

“I’ll pay. You don’t have the money to spare.”

That was true enough, especially as she was probably going to have to miss a few days of—oh. Work. Sarah. Hell. Jo had to stop herself clapping a hand to her face. She’d deal with that later.

“All right. Text me where you want to meet?”

She extricated herself from Harry and made it to the door, where a terrified nurse appeared with a wheelchair and her chart. Sherlock was nothing if not effective, when she wanted to be. The cab ride was agony on her back now the drugs were wearing off, and once they were through the door of the flat she paused at the foot of the stairs, Sherlock hovering uncertainly at her shoulder.

“Oh thank goodness,” said an infinitely welcome voice. “I’m so glad you’re in one piece, dear. You look all done in.” Mrs. Hudson was there, warm and reassuring, and she slid an arm around Jo’s waist with a firm resolve. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

They did, between Jo’s grip on the rail and Mrs. Hudson’s grip on Jo. Jo cast a longing look up to the second floor, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Not while you’re in this state. Sherlock can give up her room for a few days, can’t she?” Sherlock didn’t object. Jo was about to, for her own sake, but Mrs. Hudson interrupted. “Sherlock, go strip the sheets and tidy up, would you?”

Jo wanted to bury her face in their landlady’s shoulder and sob like a child, but she settled for collapsing in her usual chair and accepting a cup of tea and some paracetamol. God bless Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock emerged from her room some time later, but instead of the promised sheets she was carrying Jo’s mobile and her gun. Jo frowned at the phone, shocked that it had survived.

“You have missed calls,” Sherlock said. Of course she had.

“How did you get this back?” Jo asked, taking the gun first. It was easier, as it required far less talking to people who would be Justifiably Concerned.

“I told you,” Sherlock said, the usual intensity of her eyes muted in the dim light from the papered windows. They’d have to buy new panes soon, though Jo had no idea where they would find the money.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s face was answer enough. “I’m not sure I like being indebted to your brother.”

“Imagine how I feel about it.”

“No, thanks,” Jo said. She picked up the phone. Four texts from Sarah, three missed calls from Scott, and two voicemails from Lestrade. And a partridge in a bloody pear tree.

“Start with Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “He said he’d come for your statement himself. Besides, he’ll take less time than Morstan.”

Jo chose the path of least resistance and agreed. As she raised the phone to her ear, she told herself it was the last time she was ever taking dating advice from Sherlock Holmes.

********

Scott took it much better than she’d been expecting. “So the windows here, they weren’t because of a gas leak?” he asked that evening over takeaway. “I mean, I can believe in coincidence, but…” He gestured expressively at Jo with his chopsticks.

“Not a gas leak,” she agreed.

He’d brought Thai and had insisted on waiting on her as she sat on the couch. This would have been irritating from most men and under most other circumstances, but when she’d protested he’d told her with equal parts affection and practicality that she was an idiot. Even now she was dreading the process of standing up again, so she had to admit he’d been right.

“And last night, you stood me up because someone decided to bomb a swimming pool. With you inside it.”

“I was just outside at the time, if we’re being precise.”

“We’d want to be precise, talking about attempted murder,” he said.

Her eyes dropped to the curry. “He wasn’t trying to kill us.”

“Who? You haven’t told me. Someone from one of her cases?”

“Yes. Look, I’m sorry, I can’t really talk about him. There’s still an investigation on.”

“So they haven’t caught him.”

“Not yet.”

Scott went quiet after that, watching her pick through bits of cashew and water chestnut. At length she set her bowl down on the coffee table and met his gaze.

“Is he done with you?” he asked.

“I was never the point,” she said, skirting around the actual question. “It was Sherlock he was really interested in.”

“All right, so you were incidental,” Scott said, “and you still ended up in A&E.”

Jo couldn’t read his expression, and she was too tired to drag this out any longer. “Is this too much?”

“It’s terrifying,” he said. “That’s not the same thing. Do you want it to be too much?”

“No.”

“Joanna, I knew what I was getting into,” he said. “I met you in the middle of a murder investigation, and I know how you left Afghanistan.”

“It’s one thing to know,” she said.

“Yes. I did say I was terrified.”

“We’ve been together for a month, Scott. It’s a little early for you to become an army wife.”

“You’re offering me an out.”

“This is what Sherlock does. This is apparently what I do. It’s not going to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop. The bombings, those I could use a little less of, but you go on as you are.”

“You don’t mean that,” she said before she could stop herself.

A dangerous vertical line had appeared between his eyebrows. “What I do want is for you to stop thinking you know me better than I do. If you’d stopped assuming I wasn’t ready to move on from Val for long enough to give me the time of day we might have got here sooner. Don’t get angry, you know it’s true.” He reached for her, one capable hand cupping her cheek, the fingertips slipping through her hair. “I’ve wanted you from the moment you walked in here with that Tesco bag.”

“And here I’ve been thinking it was the sight of my very attractive war wounds.”

“I’d have said something right at the beginning, but it seemed unprofessional.” His eyes dropped to her shoulder, the scar hidden safely under layers of shirt and jumper. “Though I’d give a lot to see you in that dress again.”

Jo slid one hand up his chest, fingers teasing at the gap between his shirt buttons. “Since this is a night for confessions, I’d rather see you in a lot less.”

“I thought you wanted to take this as slow as we could.”

“It stands to reason I was wrong about that, too.” He leaned forward, and she gasped into his mouth as she tilted back against the cushions.

He would have pulled away if she hadn’t clutched at his shoulders.

“It’s fine,” she said breathily.

“Your back—”

“Scott. I’m telling you what _I_ want.”

He grinned. His face was too close for her to see her his mouth, but she could tell by looking at his eyes. Then he brought his other hand into play, and her laugh caught in her throat.

It felt terribly new, the press of his body against hers as she moved very carefully to lie on the couch, the sight of her pale and compact hand against the dark expanse of his chest as she pushed his shirt open. It had been too long. He pushed his hand further through her hair, her head falling back to expose her throat to whatever he had a mind to do with it. She swallowed a moan.

“What have you done with your phone?”

Jo’s head jerked in the direction of the doorway so quickly it sent a burst of agony down her spine. Sherlock stood there in coat and shoes, a manilla envelope dangling from one long hand.

“I thought you were at the Met,” Jo said, Scott frozen above her.

“I was. They’ve given me everything they have.” She took a few steps forward, picked up Jo’s bowl, and sniffed at it. “I need your phone, Joanna.”

It was currently digging into the small of her back, but that wasn’t the point. “Sherlock, do you mind?”

“Mind what?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh, that. I don’t see why I should. You could do worse.” She picked up a pair of chopsticks still in the paper wrapping and migrated to Jo’s usual chair, balancing the bowl on one knee as she tore open the envelope. “The phone, whenever you have the chance. It’s not urgent.”

Scott dropped his forehead to her collarbone.

“Rain check?” Jo asked in a low tone, though she was certain Sherlock would overhear.

She could feel his throat working. “I’ll be at the theatre past midnight tomorrow,” he said at last.

“Call me when you’re done.” He sat up and started putting himself in order, face studiously turned away from Sherlock. Jo caught his hands, and he looked down at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Call me and we’ll go back to yours.”

“It’ll be late.”

“I don’t care.” That got her a smile. He had to help her off the couch, and there was no way she was going to manage the stairs tonight, so she kissed him good-bye on the landing rather than at the door.

When he had gone, she turned around. Sherlock looked up at her from what could only be crime scene photos. Jo could imagine them, the murky crater where the pool had been, the door blown out where they had fallen together. “Phone’s on the couch,” she said. “Get it yourself.” She made her way slowly along the hall toward Sherlock’s room.

“Good night, Joanna.”

She leaned against the door frame, looking in at a newly-made bed. No hospital corners, but it was neater than she’d expected. An assortment of books and scientific equipment were piled carefully in one corner, and Jo could only conclude that someone had gone to the trouble of clearing them from the mattress. “Good night, Sherlock.”

She woke in the night to a keening sound wrung from her own throat and blinked about in terror at the unfamiliar shapes that filled the darkness. She lay there paralysed by the stiffness of her back, breathing heavily until she remembered where she was and why. The silence from the flat around her was oppressive, and her shirt was cold and damp.

Then she heard the faint sounds of the cherished Pollastri being tuned. At length they resolved into a melody, low and achingly beautiful. She timed her breath to the music, and eventually she drifted back to a troubled sleep.


	8. The Long Game (Section 2)

The days after Moriarty followed one after another with a desperate slide into something perilously close to normalcy. Once explanations were delivered, Sarah sent a bouquet so enormous she must have meant it to be funny and a note saying Jo wasn’t to show her face at the clinic for at least a week. She stopped by every so often to be certain Jo was following doctor’s orders, which aside from her nights with Scott she actually was. This was due to the fact that Sherlock hadn’t stirred from the flat even once since that first evening.

Instead she holed up in their sitting room and surrounded herself with the detritus of a hundred cold cases, from crime scene photos to witness interviews to the occasional murder weapon, whatever Lestrade would send over. “He’s here,” she told Jo. “I think he’s had his hand in half the crimes I’ve ever investigated. What we’ve seen barely scratches the surface.”

“And you think looking at old files will help you find him?”

“Far faster than interviewing explosives experts, but Lestrade does so love his protocols.” Her short, inky curls shone with the oil of missed showers. Jo had taken to getting takeaway whether Sherlock expressed an interest or not. She would eat if the food was set right on the table beside her, and Jo did not intend to let her lose weight over this, though she said she’d gone without on long cases before. “He’s been careful. The only physical evidence he’s left so far has been what he needed to lure me into the game.”

“You’d think it would be easier now that we have a face to go with the name.”

Sherlock didn’t reply to that. She just leaned over the files and kept reading, stopping every so often to fire off a round of texts or look through old news articles online. There must be a pattern, she insisted. Somewhere she would find a connection, and it would all come clear.

Jo went to see Dr. Ginzberg. Her injuries required an explanation, but she kept it as sketchy as possible and turned the conversation to Scott, who was wonderful, and to Harry, who was now an extraordinary six weeks sober. There the conversation stayed, and though Ginzberg must have noted the telltale tremor of Jo’s left hand she was evidently waiting for Jo to bring it up herself. That suited Jo just fine.

Cases started coming in, cases that bore no apparent relation to Moriarty, cases that Sherlock ignored when they came from her website and cases to which she responded with increasing scorn when they came from Lestrade. Jo got herself a back brace and refused to use the cane, even temporarily. She went to the clinic and considered looking for full-time employment in earnest. Her back got better, aside from the odd twinge. Things with Harry approached a bearable equilibrium, but they never talked about Clara.

Then came the afternoon when she returned from lunch with Scott to find Sherlock gone. Jo was elated at first, thinking it meant a shaking-up of the routine that was fraying her nerves, that Sherlock had decided to take an interest in the world around her. Then she was a little put out that Sherlock hadn’t texted. Then the day wore on into evening, which wore on into night, which wore on into the cold still hours of the morning, and by the time light crept into the sky Jo was frantic. She tried Mrs. Hudson, who hadn’t seen a thing. She tried Lestrade, who hadn’t spoken to Sherlock in days. She tried Molly and everyone else at Barts she could think of, even a bemused Phil Sutton. When evening fell she was ready to try Mycroft and deal with the consequences when Sherlock came stalking back into the flat, alive and undamaged and smelling faintly of fish.

“Good morning,” she said, sounding pleased with herself. She swept right past Jo, who was standing frozen in the sitting room, and made for the kitchen. “Is there tea?”

“It’s dinnertime,” Jo said.

Sherlock must have sensed something was amiss, because she turned and gave Jo a quizzical look. “So it is. Are we eating tonight?”

“You’ve been gone more than twenty-four hours. Have you got any idea what I’ve been thinking?”

“I try not to imagine your thought processes in great detail.”

She’d picked the wrong time for a casual insult. The blood pounded in Jo’s ears. "Have you got any idea,” she said, her voice now so cold even Sherlock looked taken aback, “how terrified I have been? How _inconsiderate_ and _selfish_ it is of you to disappear without a word only a few weeks after I was kidnapped and strapped to a vest of explosives? Somewhere out there there’s a brilliant madman who wants nothing more than to burn you alive, Sherlock, and I need to know that he hasn’t got round to it yet. Where have you been?”

Sherlock eyed her like one of her experiments, the kind that had a tendency to explode at odd moments and rarely yielded satisfactory results. “Out,” she said.

“Not good enough, Sherlock.”

“I’ve been out. Of my own free will and engaged in activities that did not require your participation, much as you’ve gone out over the last few weeks on a more or less regular basis.” She shrugged out of her coat and dropped it over the back of a chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, even I find it a strain to go more than forty-eight hours without sleep. I gather your back is improved. Perhaps you can go to the effort of walking up a few stairs so I can regain the use of my own room.”

Jo watched her go down the hall, and then she let her face drop into her hands to push back the sudden threat of tears.

*********

  
Three days later, their doorbell rang and Mrs. Hudson ushered Lestrade upstairs. Their good landlady eyed him warily, clearly suspicious that he was bringing something into their home that would interfere with her charges’ recovery. Jo, on the other hand, had rarely been so glad to see anyone in her life.

“You have a case?” she asked, careful not to sound too eager.

Lestrade glanced in the direction of the couch, where Sherlock was flat on her back with one arm dangling limply over the side. She had not stirred when he came in. She’d been there for the better part of the evening after dropping three cases’ worth of notes to the floor, declaring herself on the verge of a breakthrough, and collapsing into what Jo could only assume was a thoughtful reverie.

Lestrade hesitated. “Do you think—” Jo nodded emphatically. “I do have a case. It’s an odd one.”

“A murder?” Murders were usually good. Raise the stakes, raise Sherlock’s interest.

“Not exactly.”

A twitch of the fingers that rested on the floor. Jo cleared her throat. “A suicide, then, but you’re not quite convinced.”

“No,” said Lestrade. “This is definitely a criminal matter. Shot with a handgun from a moving vehicle. It’s the victim that makes it less cut-and-dry.”

Jo didn’t have to look at Sherlock to know they’d played their hand well. The reluctant interest rolled off that side of the room in waves. “What’s the address?”

“It’s in Knightsbridge,” he said, “but we can give you a lift.”

“No,” Sherlock said clearly.

“Or you can take a cab.”

“No. I’m not coming. I am, as I have said on multiple occasions, far too busy for your little problems.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade started, but Jo just sighed and stood up.

“Let me get my coat.”

“I said,” Sherlock put in, her voice low and biting, “that I am not coming.”

“Fine,” Jo said. “Do what you want. _I_ ’m going. I’m not interested in sitting around anymore watching you think yourself to death.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened just wide enough to glare at her, but if Jo had been hoping for any more reaction than that she was disappointed. She shook her head and held the door for Lestrade.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked on the drive over.

She wasn’t at all sure, but it was an excuse to get out of the flat. “I may not be Sherlock, but I won’t get in the way.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said, quietly enough that she wasn’t certain she’d been meant to hear it. Jo didn’t ask what did have him worried.

The corpse lay on the front porch of a well-kept house, a little puddle of its blood dripping horribly down the steps. Jo bent over to examine the bullet hole. It was typical of a small-calibre handgun, not unlike the one she carried, but that wouldn’t narrow the field much. As crime scenes went, it wasn’t all that remarkable except for one rather important fact: the victim was a dog.

A bulldog, to be precise, and of better than average breeding if Jo was any judge. “Do you know why?” she asked, utterly nonplussed.

“I was hoping Sherlock could tell us,” said Lestrade. “We’ve spoken to the owners, of course. They’re in shock.”

“They must have some idea why it happened.”

“They couldn’t think of any, but why bother with a drive-by unless you’ve a reason?”

“What sort of car was it?”

“A black sedan with tinted windows.”

“Doesn’t sound like kids joy-riding.”

“No, it was too deliberate for that. We have witnesses. The car came up the street right at the limit, slowed just a little at this house. Then the shot, and it left the neighbourhood without picking up speed. It didn’t even squeal the tires.” He brought his right hand up to scratch the inside of his left forearm, and Jo had no doubt she’d see a nicotine patch there if he pushed up his sleeves. He looked desperate for a smoke. “We ran the registration plates, of course. They were stolen off another vehicle two weeks ago. We’re comparing notes on the cases, but no luck so far.”

Curiouser and curiouser. “He was an excellent shot, from a car at that distance. But—”

“Why. I wish I knew.” Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets and turned his frown to Jo. “Don’t take this the wrong way.”

“What?”

“What are you doing here?”

Jo stared moodily down at the bulldog, willing a deduction to present itself. You’d think after months of living with Sherlock something would have rubbed off, but all she had to show for it at the moment was a headache. Her left hand gave a treasonous little shiver. “I’ve no idea.”

“I talked to the owners myself,” Jo said several hours later. She was making beans on toast, which that was all they had, and talking to Sherlock from the kitchen. This was preferable to being in the same room, because at least this way she could preserve the illusion that Sherlock might be paying attention. “Nice couple. Reminded me of my mum and dad.” She paused for what would have been a response, if this had been a normal conversation. “They were terrified, of course. Thought it must be some kind of threat, only what’s the point in threatening someone if you don’t tell them why?” The toast popped up with a merry _ding_. Jo turned to take it out, forgot about her back, and was thrown off balance by a painful twinge. That set off the leg, and she had to clutch at the counter to stay upright. All her injuries, psychosomatic and otherwise, were coming out to play.

She bit down on her lip and waited for her breathing to even out before saying, “You should have a look, Sherlock. It’s an odd case, and Lestrade’s stumped.”

When no cutting remark about the frequency of that particular event wafted back into the kitchen, she slammed the plate onto the counter so hard it rattled. Childish, stupid, and ineffective. Jo pulled the pan off the stove and began piling beans on with a vengeance.

“I don’t know why you bother,” Sherlock said when Jo came limping into the sitting room. She was in the same position she’d been in when Lestrade had arrived. Evidently the expected breakthrough had not yet occurred.

“Neither do I,” Jo said, sitting in her chair with a weary thump. The beans were tasteless, and her leg hurt like hell.

She made another appointment with her therapist.

********

  
The limp was no better the next week. “What would you like to talk about today?” Dr. Ginzberg asked, eyeing her as she settled awkwardly into a chair.

Jo gave her a wry smile. “It looks bad, doesn’t it?”

“You haven’t gone back to the cane.”

“I don’t need it.” Yet.

“All right. You don’t seem as upset about it as I might have expected.”

Jo crossed her arms over her chest, thinking. “I’m angry.”

“With Sherlock?”

“What? No. Well, not about this. I’m frustrated with myself. I don’t want to be so _easy_.”

“Meaning?”

“A few weeks without a case, and I’ve gone right back to the way I was before.”

“Have you?”

“Well, there’s the limp.”

“Which you’ve taken as proof that it’s a withdrawal symptom. Stop feeding your addiction to danger and it comes right back. I see. How are the nightmares?”

“I never told you—”

“No, and you should have. How frequent are they?”

There’d been a particularly bad one a few nights before. She’d been at Scott’s, and if she’d ever thought it would have helped to have someone there in the bed beside her she’d been proved quite wrong. She’d fled to the shower soon after, the slap of scalding water much easier to face than his uncertainty and concern. “Maybe three times a week. Not so often when it started, but they’ve got worse.”

“When did it start?”

“The night after the pool.”

That had been several sessions ago, and Jo hadn’t mentioned the dreams since then. Not very clever of her, really, but Dr. Ginzberg didn’t comment further on that. Instead she said, “That’s suggestive, but not of what you were saying. If it’s the danger you need, I’d have thought being kidnapped and caught in an explosion would have kept you satisfied for a while.”

That was a fair point.

“I know you resent hearing the words Post-Traumatic Stress, Dr. Watson. No, hear me out. I’m not offering it as an explanation for everything, but it’s time you stopped flinching from a label you don’t like and accepted that you’ve been through experiences that are causing you problems now. It isn’t just the excitement you’ve lost.”

“What else, then?” Jo’s eyebrows had shot together, but she tried to keep her face impassive enough to indicate she was willing to listen.

“There’s still an investigation on, even if it hasn’t involved any foot-chases. Have you had any part in it?”

Jo scowled. Ginzberg gave her a sympathetic look. “It’s not anything I could help with,” Jo said.

“And Sherlock? She’s just letting the police get on with it?”

“I can’t talk about her ongoing cases.”

“Of course. I won’t ask for details. I’m merely suggesting that if she did in fact have an investigation on but wasn’t involving you, you’d find that difficult to deal with. What your injuries and your psychological discharge took away from you, what that man whose name you can’t tell me took away, was control. She’s denied you the opportunity to take it back.” Ginzberg regarded her with calm assurance. It was hard to argue with a face like that. “So I’ll ask you again. Are you angry with Sherlock Holmes?”

She wasn’t, she told herself, not even when she gave up and dragged the cane out from the back corner of her cupboard. She wasn’t angry, at least not until she woke sweating and trembling a few nights later and came stumbling down the stairs to an empty flat. The couch was empty of its usual six feet of consulting detective, there were no experiments brewing over the Bunsen burner on the kitchen table, and when Jo steeled herself to go down the hall and peer in Sherlock’s door she found that too deserted. It was four in the morning.

She made herself tea, went back out to the sitting room, and sat down to wait.

Just after six, the front door opened so softly she wouldn’t have heard it if every nerve hadn’t been straining for some sign of Sherlock’s return.

Sherlock came up the steps in near silence. When she saw Jo, she straightened, outwardly relaxed, but Jo didn’t believe for a second that she’d meant Jo to know she’d been gone.

“Morning,” Jo said. “There’s tea.”

Sherlock pulled off her gloves one after the other, watching Jo all the while.

“I’m getting breakfast with Harry before work,” she said. “I’ll be out most of the day.”

Sherlock unwound her scarf and folded it with great deliberation. Her eyes followed Jo as she stood with the aid of her cane and drained the last of her own tea.

Jo went to rinse the mug out, then came back through the sitting room on her way to the loo. Sherlock was still there. “You know,” Jo said, “you can tell me what you’re investigating. You have done before.” When Sherlock said nothing, Jo shook her head. “Fine. I’ll see you later.”

*********

  
Her phone rang just after she got back from the clinic that afternoon. Sherlock was, once again, on the couch.

“Hello?” Jo said.

It was Lestrade. “Are you busy?”

“No,” Jo said with a glance at Sherlock, who looked as though she’d forgotten what busy meant.

“There’s been a shooting in Bethnal Green. Not a dog this time, but it’s the same calibre handgun, and this one was also from a distance.”

“You think it’s related to the last one?”

“I do. I know it seems unlikely, but people don’t just get shot without good reason.” His frustration was obvious. “Guns usually mean gang violence, and there’s no sign of that here.”

“Give me the address, I’ll come right over.”

“Just you?”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Jo tried, but in the end she arrived at the crime scene alone. The victim was a man in his late thirties, a banker who’d been shot in his first floor office from the window of the vacant flat across the street. The shattered glass made the shooter’s location obvious, and Jo raised an eyebrow as she peered out of the office. Lestrade hadn’t been exaggerating about the distance. It wouldn’t have been an easy shot, even for her. “He knew what he was doing, I’ll give him that.”

“That’s what worries me,” Lestrade said. “On top of that, there’s a CCTV blind spot. We have a good view of the bank, but none of the window opposite. We spoke to the owner of that building, but he said the empty unit’s been unlocked for weeks. Anyone could have got in, and the place is full of prints. We’ll have to run them all, of course, but I don’t expect anything to come of it.”

The victim was a man in his mid-thirties, rather plain and with sandy hair about the same shade as Jo’s. He’d been shot full in the chest and pronounced dead at the scene. Jo spared little attention for the gaping entrance wound, as it was obvious enough what had killed him, but she did note the cane lying under the desk beside him.

Her hand twitched.

Jo levered herself down onto the floor and pulled up the left leg of his trousers. The damage was immediately obvious: a knee so mangled it was a wonder the leg below had survived. “That’s an old injury,” she said. “Gang related, maybe?” It would lend some credence to the theory that these shootings were threats.

“No such luck,” said Lestrade. “Car accident three years ago, according to his coworkers. It killed his wife and two children. Doesn’t sound like he ever got over it. Painful, but probably not relevant.”

Probably not. “He was epileptic,” she said, turning over the medical tag that hung from a thin chain on his wrist. “That could have caused the accident.” Not that they’d have missed it, but Jo felt obliged to make an effort.

“I’ll look into it.”

“Just to humour me?”

“Have to look into something, don’t I?” He looked tired, all his usual wry humour quite evaporated. “I’m damned good at my job, Dr. Watson.” She’d never questioned that. Some people carried an air of quiet competence with them, and none more than Greg Lestrade. “On cases like this, that doesn’t seem to matter much.”

She left half an hour later without having contributed anything other than a sympathetic ear and the promise to talk to Sherlock, much good that would do.

Jo couldn’t get the sight of that body out of her head, try though she did. That evening she got up halfway through a tasteless dinner, walked to the kitchen under her own unsteady power, and shoved her cane right into the bin. She could do without.

She’d limped all the way back to her chair before Sherlock so much as looked at her. Then Sherlock let the file she was holding fall to her chest, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. “A software programmer, a retired army colonel, and a Cambridge professor of theoretical mathematics,” she said.

Jo glanced up from her casserole. It was Mrs. Hudson’s speciality and deserved a better appetite than she could provide. “Is that from the crossword?”

“You wanted to know what I’m working on. Those are the pieces. I need to connect them.”

“What’ve they got to do with Moriarty?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Sherlock said. “There must be something, but I can’t work it out. He’s like a ghost, Joanna,” she said, “and every time I reach for him he…dissolves.”

“Careful. You’re starting to sound like my blog.”

She scrubbed her fingers through her curls. “You see what it’s doing to me. It should be exhilarating, but it isn’t, it isn’t at all. He went to the trouble of engaging my interest and then disappeared.”

“He’s playing hard-to-get,” Jo said with mock sympathy. Sherlock snorted, unimpressed.

Nothing had changed, not really. She was as little help to Sherlock as she had been before, and her leg wasn’t any better. Still, she could feel that little knot of resentment in her chest begin to ease, and at this point Jo would take her victories where she could get them.

**********

  
Scott went out of town for a week to visit his sister in Bristol. Sarah’s family were in town, and meanwhile Harry was swamped with work and cancelled their dinner plans. This coincided with an extended period of health and productivity in the regular staff at the clinic, and since Jo still hadn’t found other employment that left her with approximately nothing to do. Her leg was killing her. Mrs. Hudson had offered to teach her knitting.

It came as a relief when Lestrade finally rang her. She told him she’d be there in half an hour, shoved the phone in her pocket, and limped heavily into the sitting room. “There’s been another one.”

Sherlock had been in one of her fugue states. The fact that she snapped out of it to answer was indication enough that she was ready for a distraction. “Another what?”

“Shooting. Same type of weapon, no connection between the victims. This one was a break-in, but nothing was taken. That’s three now. You know what that means, Sherlock. We have a serial killer.” When that didn’t get a response, she added, “A serial killer who started with a dog. Explain that.”

“Escalation from animal victims is a common feature of—”

“Oh, come off it,” Jo said. “There’s nothing common about this case. It’s too clean for a mad killing spree and too impersonal for your garden-variety serial murderer.” It was a bit alarming that Jo now felt she could distinguish between relative degrees of homicide. “We’ve got an expert marksman choosing random victims.”

“Not random,” Sherlock said, sitting up. Jo resisted a smile. “Lestrade’s inability to find a connection doesn’t prove anything.”

“So find it,” Jo said. “A few hours at most, Sherlock. Come and tell them what they’ve missed and you can get right back to whatever it is you’re doing here.”

Sherlock knew perfectly well that her buttons were being pushed. On the other hand, _serial killer._

They ended up at a very nice flat in Bloomsbury. The victim, an athletic woman in her mid-forties, had lived alone and had been found when the cleaning lady arrived at noon.

The body wore a thin black halter top and soft grey pyjama bottoms. Probably shot getting into—no, getting out of bed, Jo decided. She’d need better tools to determine time of death with any real accuracy, but it wasn’t more than eight or nine hours ago.

She said as much to Sherlock, who hadn’t given the victim more than a cursory glance. She seemed far more interested in the contents of the bureau drawer. Jo gave up and turned to Lestrade. “There wouldn’t have been major organ damage. She died quickly of the blood loss.”

“There’s certainly enough of it,” he agreed. Two great, dark pools were spread around the body. The hardwood would never recover.

“Shot at close range, obviously. Sherlock, are you listening?” No response, but Jo had learned not to let that discourage her. “The murderer used a handgun. You’ll call this theorising before the facts, but I’d lay money it’s the same weapon. The others were, ballistics proved that. Why so close by, though? There’s a nice plate-glass window right here with open curtains and a convenient office building just across the street. Our killer can’t have started worrying about his aim so recently.”

“Yes, worry is the wrong word,” Sherlock said, not glancing up from whatever fascinating clues she was no doubt finding among the poor woman’s panties. “He was placing his shots. Obviously.”

Jo frowned, then finished her examination and got back to her feet. Funny, her leg had stopped hurting. Small blessings, she supposed. “First bullet in the shoulder. She’d have needed extensive surgery on the clavicle, but from the blood stains I’d say the bullet missed all the major veins and arteries. That’s not the one that killed her. That leg, on the other hand—hard _not_ to hit something important. She’d have been unconscious within minutes with that kind of a bleed. Prompt medical attention might have saved her, but as it was—”

She stopped. It wasn’t like that, though, not at all as though she’d just stopped talking. Instead the words themselves ran out and were replaced by a mouthful of thick cotton, and even the dark stain on the floor had gone grey. Jo blinked and the clean lines of the room shifted to a hundred impossible angles. She blinked again, or at least had a difficult time seeing anything for a moment, and the next thing she knew someone had an iron hand under her left arm, which was very helpful given that her legs didn’t seem to be working at all.

“Chair,” said a voice in her ear, and then she was sitting in one.

The voice and hand were Lestrade’s. The man had a grip like a vice, but it was surprisingly gentle when guiding her head down toward her knees. She was vaguely aware of someone crouching in front of her.

“I’m all right,” she assured the floor between her shoes. “Never fainted in my life.” She did have some experience with  
hypovolemic shock, but that didn’t count.

“First time for everything,” said Lestrade. He sounded almost cheerful. “Sherlock, we could do with a glass of water.”

“Anderson,” said Sherlock, from the approximate location of Jo’s parietal lobe, “get Joanna some water.”

Anderson sputtered in the background, but all Jo’s attention was on the pair of long, cool hands that had wound themselves around her wrists. She lifted her head. It sent the corners of her vision sliding out of focus, but by that time she’d been caught by a clear blue gaze that anchored her in full consciousness.

“What is wrong with you?” Sherlock asked. It was neither exasperation nor sarcasm. She was simply demanding information.

There were any number of things that could cause a person to come over all weak at the knees. Jo considered her options before choosing the most innocuous. “Low blood sugar, probably.”

“Skipped a few meals?” Lestrade suggested.

“You had coronation chicken on a baguette not three hours ago,” said Sherlock, who hadn’t been around for the coronation chicken but was of course perfectly correct. “And you’re not diabetic. Better try again.”

“People get squeamish at crime scenes, Sherlock.”

“ _Don’t_ be an idiot. One more chance.”

The answer was that this was wrong, horribly wrong. Of course it was wrong, Jo told herself. It was a murder investigation. There were few things more horrible than that. But she’d seen at least several of those things, and if she couldn’t even convince herself that was the answer, she certainly wasn’t going to be able to convince Sherlock.

Who was still waiting. Jo closed her eyes. “The second bullet went in a few inches above her knee. Probably nicked some rather important blood vessels.”

“Causing severe blood loss and eventual death. You said she might have survived?”

“With immediate medical attention, yes, there’s always a chance you might live. I did.”

Jo cracked her eyelids to find Sherlock sitting back on her heels, looking pensive. “And the other shot was to the left shoulder. Is that all?”

“What, a sudden, overpowering identification with a murder victim isn’t enough?”

“Coincidence,” Sherlock said. “People get shot.”

“You don’t believe in coincidence. Now you want me to start?”

“No. I want you to work out what is wrong with this picture. You are capable of feeling empathy without forgetting who you are, and whatever aftereffects of trauma you may experience I’ve never seen you lose control like this. You’ve seen something, Joanna, something that’s upset you. Tell me what it is.”

“I’ve only seen what you have.” _Wrong, wrong_ , her gut chanted at her, and she swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. “It—you’re right, it’s horrifying, but I don’t know why. Call it intuition. But if you haven’t worked it out, how could I possibly do it?”

“You have some piece of data that I don’t. Think. What do you know?” Joanna shook her head, and Sherlock let out a long, hissing sigh of impatience. She stood, looming impossibly high, and took a few quick steps to the window, bringing her hands up to seize her head as though she might shake the truth out of it. “Intuition,” she said, rapidly and half to herself, “is also called a leap of logic, which is far more accurate. When people claim to have had a premonition that was borne out by ensuing events, more often than not they’re only being stupid and self-important, but sometimes it’s no more than the truth. The brain often makes connections that pass the conscious mind straight by, it’s how we’ve survived all these millions of years, we don’t _need_ to put them into words or work out why things are true if we simply know them to be true, that’s not the _point_ if all you want to do is stay alive—and what I do, Joanna,” she went on, scarcely stopping for breath, fixing Jo once again with those eyes like twin scalpels, “what I do is the same, it’s many degrees faster and I see all the steps in between, but it’s the same principle. You’ve done it, too. Don’t call it intuition. See the steps in between and _tell me_ what you know that I don’t.”

What did she know that Sherlock didn’t? How to give herself to something other than the relentless search for distraction, for a start. The taste of the skin below Scott Morstan’s lower lip. The number of planets in the solar system. What it felt like to hold a man’s life together with her bare hands. The colour of the wallpaper in her grandmum’s dining room. And—

She swallowed. “When I was little, my dad raised bull pups.”

Lestrade made a small noise in objection to this apparent non sequitur, but this was one of those rare and heady occasions on which Joanna had Sherlock’s full attention, so she paid him no mind.

She skipped the middle part, with Harry’s birthday and the three months of warm fur and soft tongue, and went straight to the part that mattered now. “The day before I turned nine, the boy next door shot one of them with an air rifle. The dog dragged himself through the garden and died on the front step.”

Lestrade saw it now, or part of it. Jo wasn’t sure she could see it all herself. Sherlock, though, Sherlock’s eyes had gone hard and brilliant. As Joanna had explained, the layers had been stripped away, reducing Sherlock to her fundamental parts. Someone had thrown a switch, and the woman standing before them was composed entirely of angles and edges and neurons firing.

She gestured at the body on the floor. “She’s a doctor.”

“How did you—oh, never mind,” Lestrade said. “Emergency medicine at St. Thomas’, according to the landlord.”

“And the last victim, Joanna, why was he chosen?”

Of course, it was all so obvious. “He had a cane.”

“Bad leg,” Lestrade said. “It was from an auto accident two years ago. What’s that got to do with anything? You don’t mean to say there’s a connection here after all.”

Jo’s stomach had stopped roiling. Now it sat cold and hard within her, and her hand had never been so steady in all her life. “It’s me. I’m the connection, aren’t I?”

“It would seem so.” She didn’t have to look so thrilled about it. Jo would have been nettled if she’d had any room for mundane emotions.

“That’s ridiculous,” Anderson said. “I didn’t realise narcissism was contagious.”

Lestrade shook his head. “A dog, a cane, and a pair of bullet wounds don’t add up to a conspiracy, Sherlock.”

“You wanted an answer,” Sherlock said. She eyed the body like a child presented with a gift-wrapped package.

Jo put one hand behind her to grasp the top of the chair, then levered herself up with a heave. The edges of the room stayed in focus, which she took as a good sign. She looked past Lestrade, ignored Anderson and Donovan and the woman on the floor, and turned to Sherlock. “Why, though? Is it a threat?”

“A game,” Sherlock said. “He’s been toying with me. I knew he wouldn’t keep away for long.”

“Toying with me, not with you,” Jo said. _You self-centered ass_ , she didn’t say. “It’s because you’re still investigating him. You heard what he said. He’s going to burn you, Sherlock.”

“Sorry, what?” The creases in Lestrade’s forehead had just grown deeper. “What are we on about?”

“Moriarty. Obviously.” Sherlock didn’t spare him so much as a glance. “What he said doesn’t matter. He’d never have expected me to stop.”

“He said he’d burn the heart—”

“You’re fine. So is my heart, along with any other organ of mine you’d care to name,” Sherlock said. “In the meantime, he’s killed two more people. Do you want me to stop?”

And let him kill God only knew how many more, because the police were never going to find him? Sherlock had turned that queer blue gaze on her, the excitement of a moment ago funnelled into a calm and deadly focus. Jo had never yet said no to that look. At moments like this, when it was directed at her and her alone, she wasn’t sure she could. “Of course not.”

Lestrade coughed. “I don’t suppose you’d care to fill the rest of us in on what you’re on about.”

“You’ll catch up. Or not, I don’t particularly care, but I want copies of the photos and autopsy reports for the other two.”

The DI had crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

“Give her what she needs,” Jo said.

“What I need at the moment,” Sherlock said, “is her diary, which if we are all very lucky will contain the number of the person who took her to dinner two nights ago.”

Lestrade said, “I think I saw it in the kitchen.”

“You think you saw? In a single phrase you’ve encapsulated everything wrong with the Metropolitan Police Service.”

He ignored that. “You’re saying she went for dinner with her murderer.”

“I’m saying this was obviously not a break-in. She knew him, Lestrade, but not well.”

“And you’re certain it was a he.”

Sherlock narrowed her eyes. “The murderer was a man of above-average height and powerful upper body strength with military training and a controlled temper. She did not invite him here this morning and was uninterested in pursuing a sexual relationship, but when he turned up on her doorstep unannounced she felt secure enough to let him in. She asked him to wait in the kitchen and came back to the bedroom to change, but he surprised her as she was opening the drawer. She stepped toward him and he shot her in the shoulder. She stepped back, fell, and then he placed the shot to the thigh. All quite elementary if you consider the angle of the shot, the pattern of the killings so far, the matchbook on the dresser, and the contents of this open drawer. In addition—”

Sherlock stopped when one of the officers came back into the room bearing a leather-bound diary. She flipped through the pages, then paused.

“They’re torn out,” Lestrade said, leaning over.

“Astute deduction. The page for this week and the one after—of course, the pen left an indentation in the page beneath. Have you checked her mobile?”

“What for?”

“The messages, Lestrade! He’s made a mistake, left his fingerprints all over this one.”

“Moriarty?” said Lestrade.

“Not personally. He sent someone else to do this, but it’s a start. We’ve a solid lead at last. Joanna, with me. We’re for St. Thomas’.” She started for the door, coat flapping dramatically about her thighs.

“No,” Jo said.

It was almost satisfying to discover that a single syllable from her could stop a hurricane in its tracks.

Sherlock turned, for once just a little off balance. She blinked, then subjected Jo to an evaluation that raked her head to toe. “You’re fine,” she said, though it sounded more like a question. Then she gathered herself, drawing her usual air of mastery like a cloak about her. “You’re better than fine. Look at your hand. Now come along.”

“I’m not fine,” Jo said. She was something quite other than fine. Her blood pulsed with a cold, steady rhythm in her chest, and she had never felt so alive, but she could not go with Sherlock now. She quailed at explaining this. Instead she let her shoulders droop and drew a shaky breath. She was far from Sherlock’s equal when it came to dissimulation, but she thought the others at least would buy a further show of weakness. “I need some time, Sherlock. Just a few hours, then I’ll catch you up.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“You’ll take a cab,” Sherlock said. Was that concern?

“I’ll take her.” This came from Donovan, of all people. Sherlock’s head whipped in her direction. Donovan lifted her chin a bit and met Sherlock’s stare. “Run along, freak.”

Jo wasn’t sure what to do with this unexpected show of support. “Thanks, really, but I don’t need a lift.”

“Yes you do,” Donovan said in a way that implied she needed a lot more than that. “It’s on my way.”

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demanded.

“To make those copies you wanted,” Donovan said, as though she offered to run Sherlock’s errands on a regular basis and as though Baker Street wasn’t in quite the wrong direction for New Scotland Yard. Donovan nodded to Lestrade, then gave Jo a wave. “I’ll meet you out front,” she said, and left them.

“All right, then,” Lestrade said. “Back to work, people. Sherlock, I need more than you’ve given me.”

Sherlock was not paying attention to him. Jo made to move past her and was stopped by a hand to her elbow. “Joanna.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“This has probably occurred to you, but—” Her voice dropped until it was pitched for Jo’s ears alone. “You will be certain to keep that very useful weapon with you at all times.”

It had occurred to her, not because she was concerned for her own safety but because her palm had been itching to close around the familiar handle for the last several minutes. No point in bringing up her precise reasons. “Of course.”

Sherlock gave her a satisfied nod and let her go.

The ride over was a study in determined silence that went unbroken until they pulled up outside the flat. “It suits you,” Donovan said.

“Sorry?”

“Being a target. You look better than you have in weeks.” She was as serious as Jo had ever seen her. “I told you to get out while you had the chance.”

“I remember.”

“Fishing, I said. Not getting blown up and shot at. Not getting other people killed.”

“Thanks for the lift.” Jo reached for the door.

“Wait. Dr. Watson—Joanna, be careful. And if you ever want out, give me a ring.”

As offers of help went, it was blunter than most. Jo had no intention of taking her up on it, but she was willing to acknowledge she might not have given Sally Donovan enough credit. “Thank you.” She smiled, not the reassuring doctorly smile or the easygoing one for pub nights but the grim once-more-into-the-breach look she’d last exchanged with Murray just before that last round of sniper fire. She got out of the car and watched Donovan drive away.

Jo went straight up the stairs to her room and pulled her gun from the bedside drawer. She removed and checked the magazine, slid it back in, and clipped on the waistband holster she’d bought the day after she moved into Baker Street. Then she reached for her mobile. Her fingers punched in a number she hadn’t realised she knew by heart.

The man at the front desk was not immediately inclined to be helpful. “Dr. Ginzberg is booked through Wednesday. We do  
have something Thursday morning, if you’d like to reschedule next week’s appointment.”

There was a cold pounding behind her eyes. “No, it has to be today. It’s important. It’s—could you just tell her it’s Joanna  
Watson, and it’s an emergency?”

Jo breathed through a few minutes of irritatingly soothing classical music, and then he came back on the line. “She’ll see you. How soon can you be here?”

She could be there, it turned out, in half the time it usually took, now that she had sufficient motivation. Once she was seated in the familiar office it took only a few minutes to explain the situation. Thank God Dr. Ginzberg was such a good listener, because Jo was certain the whole thing sounded as nonsensical now as it had at the crime scene. She finished and swallowed hard. “And now I want to kill someone.”

Dr. Ginzberg didn’t hesitate. “Not an unnatural reaction.”

“No, you don’t understand. I _want_ to kill someone. I’ve killed before, and I’ve always had a reason. One death to prevent another, and it’s felt—” Easy. Easier than it should. “But I’ve had a reason, and it was never the death itself I wanted. Do you understand?”

“I do. Go on.”

“I want it now. I want him dead. If he was here, unarmed, sitting in that chair instead of you, I would make it happen, and it would feel better than anything I’ve done in my life.”

“Some people would call that a public service.”

Jo had said as much to Moriarty himself, but she’d been strapped to a vest full of explosives at the time, and that did make it different. There were regulations— _laws_ , she reminded herself, because sometimes she still forgot she was a civilian now—and there were good reasons for following them. “I wouldn’t.”

“I see that.” Ginzberg was watching her, dark eyes warm and competent and with no intention to judge. “Your awareness of nuance doesn’t preclude your keeping to a very black and white set of principles, does it?”

“Principles are necessary, and sometimes they have to be black and white,” Jo said, struggling to put into words something she felt in her very bones. “It’s because there’s so much grey in the world that we need them.”

“And you’re afraid you’ll abandon those principles if this continues.” Dr. Ginzberg nodded. “I’m going to tell you something you don’t want to hear. I’m going to tell you to stop being so hard on yourself. You are a fundamentally decent woman, Dr. Watson, with sound and moral instincts. You’ll do yourself more harm than good by trying to sublimate every baser urge you have. Let yourself feel how badly you want this. That doesn’t mean acting on that impulse.”

“I don’t think you understand how dangerous this is.”

“How dangerous _you_ are?” Ginzberg smiled. “I have a better understanding than you probably realise. As your friend Sherlock so astutely noted on our first meeting, criminal psychology is a particular interest of mine. I’ve interviewed more than my share of murderers. You have as great a capacity to make terrible mistakes as anyone, but I don’t think you need to worry about that particular failing.” She leaned back in her chair. “I think it’s time we talked about your military service. I don’t mean your injuries, and I don’t mean the friends and patients you lost. Suppose you tell me what it takes, Dr. Watson, to make you kill a man.”

*********

When Jo joined her at the mortuary that evening, Sherlock didn’t ask where she’d been. She barely seemed to notice Jo’s entrance, absorbed as she was in an examination of the previous victim. It did occur to her to ask, “All right?”

“I’m fine,” Jo said, and she was. The pistol was at her side, and the cold fury had retreated to the back of her awareness. It would keep, much like a caged tiger would do. “What did you find at St. Thomas’?”

“Little of value. He played the clarinet.”

“Sorry?” It took her a moment to catch up. Sherlock was talking about Paul Griffiths, the man on the slab. Jo wondered why he was still there, then remembered the accident that had killed his family. Likely there was no-one to collect him with any urgency.

“The clarinet, for years. You can tell by the teeth.”

His hand looked so grey and empty that Jo had to fight the urge to take it in hers. This man had died on her account. “I played,” Jo said. “Not for that long.”

Sherlock looked up sharply. “Did you?” She frowned, then shook her head. “It may or may not be relevant. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Is that how this works?” Jo asked, folding her arms across her chest against the chill of the morgue. “He picks someone who has something in common with me, and they die.”

“I suspect there’s more method to it than that.”

“What if you’re wrong?” That got her a dirty look, but she had to ask. “What if it is just coincidence? They might not even be the same murderer.”

“All three victims were shot with a 9mm handgun that was old enough to have developed a distinctive fingerprint. I’ve just seen the ballistics reports. The patterns are nearly identical.” Sherlock picked up Griffiths’ left hand, turning it from side to side and examining the fingernails. “It’s not difficult to alter the barrel of a gun if you want to. So, Joanna, we have a person expert enough with firearms to shoot a man from across the street with a handgun, but he doesn’t take basic measures to hide his tracks. Conclusion?”

“He’s an incompetent criminal.”

“Or?”

“He wanted someone to connect his crimes.”

“There are other possibilities, but you’ll admit that is by far the likeliest.”

“Guesses,” Jo said stubbornly.

“Logic,” said Sherlock. “This was orchestrated to catch my attention. You see, you were right.”

“About what?”

“When you were telling me about the bulldog, you said threats were pointless unless they were understood.”

She hadn’t thought Sherlock was listening to that. “But Moriarty can’t have known you’d see these cases. It was pure luck Lestrade was assigned the first one and pure luck I decided to go with him.”

“The dog was a deliberate choice of victim. He had to know I’d hear about a case that inexplicable before long.”

Jo shook her head. “He wouldn’t leave so much to chance, would he? It doesn’t make sense, Sherlock. What are the odds I’d have come along on all three cases?”

Sherlock eyed Jo over Griffiths’ body as though trying to gauge her state of mind. Then she said, “They may not have been the only ones.”

Jo absorbed that silently. She was right, of course. London was a big city and Lestrade was far from the only detective the Met had to offer. There might well be other victims.

Sherlock didn’t give her time to wallow in the idea. “Then consider the method. His last victim was shot at close quarters, but that was only because he had to be certain to place the bullets correctly. The other two were shot from a distance. Could you have managed the dog?”

“From a moving car? Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.”

“There aren’t many who could. I know you could have shot Griffiths. So did his killer.”

That instant of fear and frustration as she realised she’d chosen the wrong building, the glint of light from the window across the alley, and the utter certainty as she raised her gun—“He knows I killed Jefferson Hope.”

“He knows a great deal more than that. The question is how.” Finished with Griffiths, Sherlock slid the long metal drawer back into the wall and closed the door. “The cabbie is obvious. Moriarty sponsored him, so he would have taken an interest. How could he have known about the clarinet?”

“I’ve no idea, unless he’s been chatting up my teachers from the third form.” Though Daniels had probably done his best in the years since to forget she’d ever picked the instrument up. It had not been the high point of Jo’s young life. She’d told Sarah, hadn’t she, joking about her many talents? Surely not Sarah. That didn’t bear thinking about.

“And the bull pup?”

“There’d be a police report, I suppose. He could have found out if he’d wanted to. Sherlock, I don’t know, and to be honest it’s not what I’m worried about. You called this a threat.”

“I was imprecise. It’s a message. An invitation back to the game.”

A love letter, no doubt, in Moriarty’s skewed version of reality. “ _And_ a threat.”

“He’s done that already,” Sherlock said with a wave of one elegant hand. “He’d never repeat himself. This is something new.”

“So you don’t think I should worry.”

“I did tell you to arm yourself.”

“That’s not what I meant. I can’t walk around with a target on my back. Someone else might get caught in the cross-hairs.”

“The thought had occurred. Fortunately Moriarty seems to have chosen a shooter with aim as accurate as yours. Any collateral damage will be deliberate, not accidental.”

“Really not reassuring.”

“If it’s your boyfriend’s life you’re concerned for, or your sister’s or one of your colleagues’, I wouldn’t worry. You’re not the intended recipient of these messages.”

“Right,” Jo said. “Somewhere in having my past written out in someone else’s blood, I forgot I wasn’t important in all this.”

“Important to me, not to him,” Sherlock said. She threw that out like it wasn’t an earth-shattering admission. Jo had known, of course, had seen the way Sherlock’s face had changed when Jo had stepped out into the pool, but hearing it made a difference. “It’s not like him to go after your nearest and dearest when it’s me he intends to hurt. I’ve thought it through. Tomorrow Mrs. Hudson will receive a letter saying she’s won an all-expenses-paid holiday in some sunny location, to be redeemed immediately.”

“How—”

“Mycroft, of course. It’s appalling the degree to which I’ve had to rely on him in this case.”

“And if Moriarty decides your family would make a convenient letterhead for these messages?”

Sherlock gave her the very familiar “Must you be so slow?” look. “If he imagines he can get at Mycroft, he’s not half so clever as I think he is.”

“That still leaves two people dead,” Jo said. “They might not be ‘important’ to either of us, Sherlock, but that doesn’t make them expendable.”

“If you think I can prevent him shooting any one of the thousands of Londoners who might conceivably bear some resemblance to you, then I’m far cleverer than you think _I_ am. I can’t protect an entire population.”

“Then what do we do?”

“I plan to stop this at the source,” Sherlock said. “Are you with me?”

“I did say ‘we’.”

“It’ll be dangerous.”

“Not very clever at all, are you?” Jo asked.

Sherlock’s mouth twisted in the slightest of smiles. “Let’s hope I am.”


	9. The Long Game (Section 3)

The chase led them through parts of London Jo had never even heard of, and it quickly became clear that Sherlock’s investigation had been far more active than she’d let on. Tracking down the focal point of a criminal organisation was rarely an easy matter, but this was made more difficult by the absolute silence its members kept. Criminals did not talk about Moriarty. They followed dozens of leads, many of them promising, but each petered out without yielding any concrete evidence.

As though making up for all the lost time during which she’d kept Jo in the dark, Sherlock whirled her like a flail through London’s criminal element. Jo would spend a night racing across rooftops, arrive back at Baker Street just after dawn to shower and gulp down enough coffee to wake a dead man, and then spend her day treating rashes and sore throats at the clinic. She’d join Scott for a late dinner and fall into bed with him a few hours later, ready to leap right up again if Sherlock sent a text.

It was brilliant at first, the perfect antidote to weeks of forced inaction. The trouble was that it didn’t end. The circles under Jo’s eyes grew a bit deeper, and it became just a little harder to fall asleep every night. Sherlock hoarded every scrap of evidence they found, piecing it all together in some gigantic game of connect-the-dots whose shape Jo couldn’t even begin to see.

“Does it worry you, not being able to take other cases?” Jo asked one morning. They’d arrived at the tail end of February and everything was miserable and wet. There were no open leads, and there hadn’t been any more shootings. Sherlock had fallen back to old case files. Jo was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sherlock followed Jo’s gaze to the television, where a reporter had just finished telling them about a burglary turned stabbing in Blackfriars and was now giving updates on the kidnapping of Madeleine Parsons, eight years old and missing for just over thirty-six hours.

“No,” Sherlock said, turning from the girl’s smiling face (“…last seen wearing jeans and a red hooded jumper. If you have any information please call the number on this screen….”) to whatever had captured her interest now. “This is quite enough stimulation. Though I suppose you were referring to the greater good of which I’m meant to be a part. In that case, also no. The sheer number of crimes Moriarty has committed, or managed, or planned, makes any single investigation an inefficient use of my time and talents.”

“I suppose,” Jo said.

“I don’t suppose, Joanna. I know. It’s astounding what he has done and how he’s managed to hide it. His network is larger than I had expected. There are scores of hired hands on the edges, but I’ve also identified no less than half a dozen people who must be intimately connected to him, they simply must be! But I can’t prove it.”

“Who?”

“A software programmer, a retired army colonel—”

“And a mathematician, I remember.”

“And several others.”

“How did he find them all?”

“Another question I can’t answer. There’s no logic to it, no method to unravel. I’m missing something.”

Jo glanced at Sherlock’s pale forearm and saw the outline of a nicotine patch. “I take it we aren’t going out today.”

Sherlock made an irritated sound that fell somewhere between a growl and a grunt. Jo nodded and combed one hand through her dripping hair, which was taking forever to dry. “That’s what I thought. Ring me if that changes.”

“Where are you going? You don’t have plans with Scott until tomorrow, and they don’t need you at the clinic.”

None of which she’d actually mentioned, but Jo had given up wondering how Sherlock knew her schedule better than she did. “I’m having lunch with Harry.”

“It’s too early for lunch.”

“First I’m having a haircut. This is getting ridiculous.”

“Boring.”

“But necessary. Have fun with your software programmer, and if you do decide to go wandering into anything dangerous, for God’s sake text me first.”

Jo walked past several high-end salons until she’d found a proper barber’s. The man there gave her a dubious look and asked her what she wanted, to which she replied, “Short,” and let him at it. Jo felt herself relax by degrees as the long strands came falling away.

“It looks nice,” Harry said unconvincingly over lunch.

Jo grinned. “No, it doesn’t.”

Her sister, whose own short hair fell effortlessly around her fine-boned face, let out an explosive sigh. “No, it doesn’t. You don’t have the cheekbones for it.”

“I know.”

“And it makes you look older, which I know you took as a compliment when you were twenty, but now it’s not doing you any favours. You look exhausted. Are you sick?”

“Haven’t been sleeping well, but I’m fine. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Jo,” Harry said, eyebrows drawn together in very sisterly concern, “I’m going to start nagging you, and the role reversal is going to be very confusing to both of us.”

“I don’t need nagging. I’m good. Better than good.” So long as she ignored the probability that there’d be another murder laid at her door before too long. “My therapy is going fine, Scott’s fantastic, Sherlock hasn’t exploded anything in our kitchen for almost a month now, and you’re not drinking. Are you?”

“Ten weeks, but we’re not talking about me.”

That was easy enough to fix, especially when it came out that Clara was seeing someone else. She spent the rent of lunch expressing her sympathy and trying very hard not to remind Harry that she’d been the one to break it off in the first place. All in all, it wasn’t the worst meeting they’d had.

Lestrade’s next summons arrived at three the next morning. Jo had been lying fully-dressed on her covers and staring at the ceiling. Twenty seconds after the low buzzing from her bedside table had startled her to attention, she was down in the sitting room. She found Sherlock already pulling on coat and gloves.

“Good, you’re ready,” Sherlock said, ignoring the fact that Jo should have been half-asleep and in pyjamas, and led the way out the door. She didn’t comment on Lestrade’s text, which had consisted only of an address and two cryptic phrases.

 

 _Fair warning. This one’s worse._

 

The moment Jo stepped under the police tape she understood why. The crime scene was an efficiency half the size of her bedroom, all drab browns and grey-greens furnished with nothing more than a desk, a floor lamp, and a pitiful single bed with a mattress that made Jo’s back hurt just to look at it. The resemblance to her own pension-funded halfway house from back before Baker Street, back before Sherlock, was probably not a coincidence.

Of course, she’d never made such a mess of the pillow.

The body lay flat on its back, legs straight out, left hand neatly at its side. It was dressed in a dark suit, the trouser seams pressed into lines sharp as razor-blades. The head—male, sandy hair cropped close, Jo noted dispassionately—looked relatively undamaged when viewed from the right, the entrance wound a small dark hole with ragged edges. No propellant burns, so the muzzle had been pressed tightly against his temple. The right hand had fallen from the mattress, and the twin of Joanna’s own service weapon lay underneath.

She bent over the bed to examine the gaping exit wound and confirmed the estimated time of death with Anderson. “Suicide,” he was saying. “Open and shut. Even she won’t be able to argue with that.”

“Because of the entrance wound? It’s a good angle for suicide, but that’s not nearly enough to say for certain.” On the face of it, he was probably right, but Jo had learned to mistrust the obvious when she saw Sherlock and a dead body in the same room.

“Yes, thank you,” Anderson said. “I’d forgotten everything I’ve learned in two decades of police forensics. On the strength of the blood spatter and locked door, obviously.”

“Bolt and chain,” Lestrade agreed. “The window’s locked. And the body hasn’t been moved, so unless you think he literally took it lying down it’ll be hard to call this a murder.”

“He might have been drugged.”

“We’ll have the tox results back soon, but we also need to explain the door. The killer can’t have bolted it after himself.” Lestrade sounded confident, as well he might, but he still turned to look at Sherlock. Anderson did as well, though it clearly pained him.

Sherlock was still standing in the doorway, her gaze fixed on the dark stain blown across the wallpaper. “What is it?” Jo asked. “Is there something wrong with the spatter? Sherlock, are you even listening?”

Her head jerked toward Jo at the sound of her name. “What?”

Jo stared at her, now a little concerned. “The blood spatter. What’s wrong with it?”

Sherlock blinked at Jo, then looked back at the victim. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “It was self-inflicted.” She crossed to the bed in two long steps and folded into a crouch beside him.

“Glad you think so,” Anderson said. “Now that we’re all on the same page, you might as well get out of my crime scene.”

“Anderson,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock peered down at the handgun on the floor, then up at the victim’s face. “It’s murder.”

“You just said—”

“I know what I said,” Sherlock said, a bite to her voice. “It was self-inflicted. It’s also murder.”

Lestrade shook his head. “A choice of two pills at gunpoint is one thing, but this man shot himself through the head in a locked room. It’s not at all like Jefferson Hope.”

“Hope was an amateur. Moriarty is anything but.” Sherlock’s eyes travelled up and down the body. “This man was a soldier.”

“Major Charles Harris, according to the discharge papers,” Lestrade said. “We found them in the desk drawer.”

“Why the discharge?” Jo asked, though she could already hear the words “wounded in action” like a ghastly echo of something she’d done her best to leave behind.

“Psychiatric reasons,” Lestrade said, and that was worse. “There’s a medical file, too, and it’s clear enough if you read between the lines. He served fourteen years without major incidents, and then his convoy was hit. Eight dead. He survived without a scratch on him, but the shell-shock was so bad they didn’t have any choice. Sent him right back home with the offer of a desk job if he could pull himself together. That was three months ago.”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Anderson said. “Instead of pulling himself together he went off his head. That’s a 9mm semiautomatic, and I’d bet my next paycheque ballistics will find a match with the other three bullets.”

“You think he’s our murderer?” Jo said. He might have been hired by Moriarty, or it could mean Sherlock had been wrong all along and these deaths had nothing to do with her. She wanted to cling to that hope, but every particle of her rebelled against accusing Major Charles Harris when the only crime she could prove he was guilty of was a weakness she shared.

“She said it herself,” Donovan said, looking at Sherlock. “Above-average height, upper body strength, and military training.”

“You’ll find you’re right about the gun,” Sherlock said, “but this man was murdered. Waving a toy pistol in someone’s face isn’t the only way to talk him into taking his own life.” She turned, eyes scraping across the room. “No computer, but there are simpler ways.” She reached for the mobile phone sitting on the bedside table.

“Prints, Sherlock,” said Lestrade, but there was no heat in it.

“You won’t find any of value.” Sherlock was punching at the keys. “What time did he die?”

“The neighbours heard the shot at half one.”

Sherlock turned the phone around and thrust it into his face. “Call received at eight after one. Have the number traced. You won’t find anyone at the other end, but it’ll keep you busy while I do all the actual work. I have what I need here. Send me everything you find.”

Lestrade looked none too happy about this, but he barked an order to the police photographer who’d been hovering outside, and the crime scene bustled with activity. Lestrade took out his own mobile and dialled.

Jo shoved her hands deep in her pockets. The waistband of her two-sizes-too-large trousers stretched against the bulk of her handgun, buried under several layers of clothing and her heaviest coat. She looked sideways at Sherlock, who was still staring at Harris. It wasn’t her usual incisive expression.

Before Jo could say anything, Sherlock herself spoke in a voice so low that Jo had to strain to hear it.

“This,” she said, “ _this_ is a threat.”

Jo considered that. She probably should have found the idea more frightening than she did. “Not a very clever one.”

“Why not?”

She gave Sherlock something she hoped looked like a smile. “I told you. It would be cyanide, never the gun.”

Sherlock’s eyes went flat, like someone had pulled the shutters closed. Jo never heard what she was about to say, because at that moment Lestrade swore so loudly and suddenly that even Sherlock paid attention.

“All right,” he was saying. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I want everything you have.” He hung up and looked down at his mobile as though it had committed some terrible betrayal. “Someone at the station recognised our victim’s name. You’ll never guess who his sister is.”

“Suppose you spare us all the trouble,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade shoved the phone into his coat pocket and made for the door, scattering forensics staff in his wake. “Elizabeth Parsons.”

“The kidnapping case?” Jo said, hurrying to keep up.

“Apparently he’s the girl’s uncle.”

“Is it related?”

“Quite a coincidence if it isn’t.”

Sherlock snorted. “I don’t—”

“Believe in coincidence, we know,” Lestrade said. “I’m starting to agree with you.”

Eight-year-old Madeleine Parsons, daughter of John and Elizabeth and niece of Charles Harris, had disappeared from the playground at her school just short of sixty hours before. Witness interviews had confirmed the presence of a black sedan, registration numbers unknown. There had been no leads.

Jo and Sherlock were treated to a Yard-style territorial dispute as Lestrade squared off with the lead investigator on the Parson’s case. This might have been fascinating as a sociological phenomenon—Jo couldn’t help comparing it to similar interactions she’d seen in the service—but it was four in the morning and there was a child missing, and all it was was frustrating.

Sherlock cut the Gordian knot by lifting the Parsons file from the lead investigator’s desk, a move Lestrade probably wouldn’t have approved of but one that worked well enough for her purposes. She and Jo retreated to Lestrade’s office to read it and watch the progress of the pissing match from a safe distance.

“They’ve been thorough,” Sherlock said, which was remarkable praise.

“Hmm,” Jo said, only half paying attention. She was looking through Lestrade’s window. A man and a woman had entered the room, both wearing the exhaustion that comes from shock and fear. Maddy’s parents, she assumed. As she watched, Lestrade went to the woman and said something, shook his head and said something else, and then the woman pulled back as though he’d slapped her.

“On the other hand, they haven’t made the Moriarty connection.”

“Does that help?”

“Of course it helps. We’re leaving.”

“Should we tell—”

“No. Come along, Joanna.”

********

“Are you all right?” Jo asked. It was just after dawn, and they were walking quickly along a street in the docklands getting strange looks from the early risers on their way to work. Sherlock seemed off, somehow, in a way Jo couldn’t quite identify.

“I don’t like kidnappings,” Sherlock said.

“Why not?” Jo asked, a little surprised to hear Sherlock spurn an entire category of investigation.

She exhaled, the air rising from her mouth in a puff of steam. March had stolen the worst of the chill from the air, but it was still early enough to be cold. “They’re unpredictable.” This would usually have been a point in their favour, a fact Sherlock must have recognised. She made an irritated face. “There are factors I don’t usually have to account for.”

“A live victim, you mean,” Jo translated.

“It throws things off. Bodies follow a beautiful logic, Joanna.”

“It’s easier to reduce them to evidence, I suppose.”

“All they _are_ is evidence. They’re a perfect record of a crime committed. There’s nothing better than that. It’s when the evidence has a mind of its own that things get cluttered.”

This should have been disturbing. Jo should have been able to read it as corroboration of the sociopathy to which Sherlock laid such offhand and defensive claim, but instead she was inclined to see it as quite the opposite. Of course, Jo herself was probably developing Stockholm Syndrome, so her take on it probably wasn’t worth much.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked. She hesitated as she said it, as though the words felt unfamiliar.

This was an extraordinary question coming from her, and Jo had to take a moment to think about her reply. “Quietly homicidal” was the most accurate answer, but she was reasonably certain she looked nothing of the sort and didn’t really feel like bringing it into the open. She could deal with that in her own time.

“I’m fine,” she said. “A little tired, but I can keep up, wherever we’re going. You _do_ know where we’re going, I hope.”

“Of course. I’ve been tracking suspicious real estate purchases across the city,” Sherlock said. “Less interesting than footwork, but they tell a story if you know how to read it. In fact—” She stopped, made a full turn, and then darted down a side-street that looked just like all the others they’d passed. Jo had no time to linger on the oddity of what had come before. Instead she found herself dragged willingly on a breathless chase after nothing. It culminated in the forced door of an abandoned furniture store, closed due to the recession like so many others, and the discovery of a little back office that someone had converted into a makeshift bedroom. A child-sized bed was sandwiched between two old filing cabinets, the brightly-coloured sheets incongruous against the drab furnishings. A cheap mobile phone lay on the bare floor in the very centre of the room. The remains of a cold cheese toasty sat on a plate at the foot of the bed, the lock on the door was shining and new, and two long brown hairs lay on the pillow.

Jo tucked away her gun, almost disappointed when it became obvious they weren’t about to be surprised by a half-dozen angry kidnappers. She waited in the doorway and watched Sherlock work.

“She was here,” Jo offered eventually.

Sherlock didn’t pause. She was scraping something gritty off the doorknob into a small plastic bag. “Of course she was here. Less than four hours ago, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Why move her?”

“She’d served her purpose.”

Jo flinched. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know if she’s still alive,” Sherlock said bluntly. “I will say that if he intended to kill her he might as easily have left the body here. Possibly he has something more inventive in mind.”

Jo was going to put a bullet in that man’s head, and she was going to watch him watch her do it. “Why Maddy Parsons?”

“Not Maddy Parsons. Charles Harris.” Sherlock leaned in to sniff at the doorknob. “If nothing else, the fact that she’s been moved so recently is proof that he wasn’t the kidnapper. That’s what the Yard is thinking, you know.”

“I thought they were.”

“Driven mad by trauma,” Sherlock said, “and so acclimated to violence it was the only response he knew. It’s a convincing narrative, isn’t it? So is the less judgmental version, the one Lestrade felt more comfortable believing. A poorly-timed suicide also made sense.”

“No it didn’t,” Jo said. “A week ago, maybe, but not with his niece missing and his sister desperate. He’d never have done it now.” She hadn’t known Harris, but she didn’t need to to be certain of this much.

“My thoughts precisely,” Sherlock said, giving Jo an approving look. “What really happened is of course quite simple.”

“Is it?”

“You tell me, Joanna. How did Major Charles Harris die?”

“Oh, God,” Jo said. It really was obvious. “The phone call.” She looked at the mobile that lay on the cold cement. “They put Maddy on, didn’t they?”

“Not for long,” Sherlock said. “It was only a five-minute call. Long enough, though, to prove to him that his niece was still alive after two days of frantic searching. Then Moriarty would have come on the line and told him exactly what to do if he wanted her returned to her parents. That brings us to one-thirteen. Harris found the gun in his desk drawer, as Moriarty had told him he would. He changed his clothing and shaved. You saw the stubble in the sink?”

“Making himself presentable,” Jo said. The suit had probably been the best thing he owned. She knew he’d have chosen a uniform if he’d still owned one, but short of that he’d gone to his death inspection ready.

“Then he would have bolted the door and locked the window as instructed. And then, just short of one-thirty….”

“Yes, I see,” Jo said.

Sherlock frowned. “The gun does concern me, though. He’s followed a pattern up until now. Same weapon, same fingerprint, no playing around with false suicides. Harris was different, and now we have the gun in custody.”

“Why change now?”

Sherlock looked down at the phone on the floor. “He’s upped the stakes. Come along, Joanna. This isn’t over.”

“What about Lestrade?”

“Text him the address if you like. I need the lab at Barts.”

Molly wasn’t in, but Sherlock explained that it was much easier to procure keys to the labs than to the mortuary, so that wasn’t a problem. While she put the grit from the doorknob under a microscope, Jo sat in silence and turned things over in her head: the clarinet, her Dad’s bull pups, Charles Harris taking the time to shave before he pulled the trigger.

“Bacon grease,” Sherlock said at last. Jo started, having fallen into a near doze. “Bacon grease mixed with breadcrumbs and dish-soap.”

“That’s helpful,” Jo said.

“He left it as a deliberate message. It must mean something.”

“Moriarty probably got hungry. I’m starting to sympathise. Do you want coffee?” It wasn’t as though Jo’s sitting around was likely to contribute anything.

“The drip coffee is vile here.”

“There’s the Criterion just down the street. You’ll like their espresso. Shall I—” The words stuck in her throat as she remembered the last time she’d gone there, and suddenly everything came clear. “Oh,” Jo said.

Sherlock swivelled on her stool. “What?”

“Of course.” For once it was Jo’s turn to leave a room in a flurry of enlightenment and Sherlock’s turn to come hurrying at her heels, demanding to know what she was on about. It was still early. He wouldn’t be on his rounds yet. She set a beeline for the Endocrinology wing, making right for the consultants’ offices.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked again.

Jo glanced through the nameplates until she found the one she wanted. “Phil Sutton. You know him, or he knows you, at least. He took a position in Endocrinology not too long ago. I saw him just before this whole Moriarty thing started.”

“Joanna—”

“We used to date!” Jo threw over her shoulder, and then they burst into his office.

Phil dropped his pen, startled. “Good to see you, Jo,” he said, though it didn’t sound like he meant it.

“Sherlock, the door,” Jo said, and then she drew her gun and pointed it at his face.

Her hands were as steady as they’d ever been. The same could not be said for Phil. “What the hell?”

“I’m asking the questions,” Jo said. “Where’s Maddy Parsons?”

“Joanna.”

“Sherlock, he knows about the dog,” Jo said. She could remember it clearly now, a long and lazy Sunday morning spent in bed, Phil tracing lazy circles on her hip as she vomited up every private detail of her childhood. She’d told him about Harry’s birthday gift of a puppy and her Dad’s promise that, yes, this one they could keep, this one was just for them. She’d told him about coming home from school and finding the dog cold and still on the front step, a pool of blood leaking from its belly. And he’d listened, damn him, he’d listened to every word. “He knows I played clarinet. I saw him talking to Mike Stamford the day after Moriarty planted the bomb on Baker Street.”

“Joanna—”

“Bomb?” Phil said, his gaze swinging wildly between Jo and Sherlock before settling on the weapon in Jo’s hands. “What are you talking about?”

“I will kill you,” Jo said. “I’ll kill you and I won’t regret it at all. What else have you told him? Was Charles Harris your idea?”

Phil didn’t answer her. It was just like Ted Wilkins, except she’d never have killed Ted Wilkins. Phil’s mouth was hanging open, and she wanted nothing more than to blow that look off his lying face. All it would take was the slightest pressure of her trigger finger.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me the truth, Phil. What has he done with her?”

“I don’t know what—”

She clicked the safety off and he crumpled in naked fear.

“Joanna!”

She’d never heard that particular urgency in Sherlock’s voice before. It cut right through her sense of purpose, and Jo turned her head just enough to see her approaching, eyes alert and one hand outstretched.

“Don’t you see?” Jo said. “It explains everything.”

“Joanna,” Sherlock said, and she laid her palm right across the muzzle of the gun. Jo stared at her. “Put it away.”

“No,” Jo said, but her index finger had already relaxed.

“I know you dated for seven months while you were both medics. I’ve looked into him already. His finances are spotless, aside from some minor and uncreative tax evasion, and the job offer here came through legitimate channels.” Jo let her hands fall until the Browning was pointed at the floor. “If he’s Moriarty’s source, he isn’t aware of it.”

 _Are you sure?_ was the first thing she wanted to ask, but Sherlock wouldn’t have said it if she wasn’t sure. _Why didn’t you_ tell _me?_ was the next, but Sherlock investigating her exes was predictable and not something she wanted to argue about just now.

“Put the gun away.”

She did, hands moving automatically to secure it at her waist.

Phil seemed to have caught on to the fact that he wasn’t about to be shot. He reached for the phone.

“I wouldn’t,” Sherlock said. His hand froze before it reached the receiver. “I can prove the tax evasion, you know.”

Two spots of colour appeared on his chalk-white cheeks, and Jo’s knees trembled as the adrenaline leaked out of her. It was replaced by a wrenching horror at what she’d assumed and what she’d nearly done.

“Joanna,” Sherlock said, voice calm and persuasive, “we should go."

“Right,” she said. “Phil—” There was nothing to say. An apology seemed beside the point.

“Get out of my office.” His voice cracked on the last word.

“Gladly,” said Sherlock. She swept out the door.

Jo made to follow, but Phil wasn’t quite done. He stared at her as though in their seven months together he’d managed to map every inch of her without every really seeing what she was. “What’s she done to you?” he asked.

She didn’t know how to answer.

“Everyone knows there’s something wrong with Sherlock Holmes, but you—you’re a special kind of screwed up,” he said.

Jo shook her head. “You have no idea.”

When the door had closed behind her, Jo put a hand out to the wall to keep from toppling over.

Sherlock came up to her side. “You wouldn’t have shot him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You don’t know that,” Jo said. She’d wanted to pull the trigger. She might have done it.

“Unlike most of the human race, I’m not in the habit of presenting assumption as fact.” Clearly impatient with the subject, she added, “Self-recriminations won’t do us any good. I’d point out there’s still a kidnapping victim out there somewhere, but that sort of reminder’s more in your line than mine.”

“There is, isn’t there?” She scrubbed one hand across her face. “All right. What next?”

Next they rang Lestrade, or rather Jo did while Sherlock listened in and occasionally shouted things at the speaker.

“We’ve tracked the phone he left,” Lestrade said. “Definitely the one he used to ring Harris. The number belonged to a pre-paid mobile bought from the Vodafone on Baker Street one week ago.”

“That’s just a few doors from the flat,” Jo said. Moriarty was thumbing his nose at them.

“Neither of the cashiers remembers the sale, and the buyer paid cash. We’re working on CCTV footage now.”

“No good,” Sherlock said. “He’s far too clever for that. Keep looking anyway. Were there other calls made from that number?”

“The memory’s cleared, but we’re working on that, too,” Lestrade said, apparently finding it more trouble than it was worth to be offended at such a casual command. “There’s paperwork for that sort of thing, you know, and the service providers drag their feet on giving us information.”

“Do better.”

“Easy for you to say. And Sherlock, I need to know how you found that office.”

“Property agent owes me a favour,” Sherlock said. “Text if you find anything.” She reached for the phone and broke the connection herself.

Jo didn’t have the energy to object. “Where now?”

“You’re meeting Scott at half ten.”

It had gone straight out of her head, but the real surprise was that Sherlock had remembered. “I’ll cancel.”

“You won’t. You need food.”

This was true, but she wasn’t accustomed to having it pointed out for her. “We’re in the middle of a case. He’ll understand.”

“You’re tense, and you find him soothing. I can manage without you for a few hours, you know,” Sherlock said. “I’ve done it before.”

“I—thank you, Sherlock.” She must look terrible indeed to merit that sort of consideration, but she couldn’t argue with it. Food, a hot drink, and a steady presence. That was exactly what she needed.

Scott was very good at this sort of thing. He read her preoccupation in a split second and worked out almost as quickly that he needed to give her some time before he could ask about it. He busied himself with the menu while she breathed through the last few shocks of adrenaline and kept her occupied through the whole meal with anecdotes about the show he was designing. Theatre people, as it turned out, were an endless source of entertaining stories.

She was beginning to work out what his silences meant as well as his chatty periods, though, and the pause as they settled the bill told her she’d have to explain herself before long. She busied herself with her wallet to stall for time. One of the things she liked most about him was that he’d never once objected to going Dutch. They were fast approaching the state where she’d feel comfortable letting him pay for a whole meal from time to time, as she knew he’d let her do the same. That was a good place to be.

Soon their wallets were both folded away, though, and he’d been patient long enough. They stepped out into a light drizzle, the drops running straight off her head to the bare skin of her neck now that her hair was too short to shield it. He reached to touch her arm. “What’s upset you?”

She shook her head and kept walking. “Nothing.” When that clearly wouldn’t do, she admitted, “Run-in with an ex.” That should have been the least of it, with a soldier lying dead and a little girl missing and an honest-to-God psychopath staring at her through the crosshairs, but somehow what clawed at her the worst was the realisation that she’d come so very close to toppling straight over the edge. That it was Sherlock, of all people, who’d talked her down made it still more unsettling.

“Should I be jealous?” Scott asked, a gentle tease that still carried the weight of a genuine question. He had the right to wonder, she supposed, given the way his marriage had ended.

At least this she could answer without pause. “No. It’s really not like that. It was just difficult. Sorry I’ve been such a rubbish date.”

“What is it like, then?”

That was an excellent question, and as he looked down at her, the rainwater running into the creases of his face, she understood that this was probably going to hurt a great deal. She had no right to be thinking ahead to the next meal, the next evening spent on the couch pretending to watch a film and finding something much better to do instead.

Not in the open, though. She pulled him into a side-street, away from prying eyes and under the eaves of a darkened shop. The rain parted above them. Jo took his face in her hands, angling it so he had no choice but to look her in the eyes. “You don’t want me,” she said.

He smiled. “Of course I do. I thought I’d been clear on that.”

“No,” she said, “no, you don’t. I’m going to make you miserable.”

“You haven’t so far. Did he make you think that?”

“I made me think that.”

“Bollocks.” Startled, she dropped her arms to her sides, but he caught them just above the elbows and held her gently. “Are you planning to cheat on me?”

“No.”

“You’re hiding a child from a previous marriage?”

“God, no.”

“You’re going to steal all the money I don’t have and run for Venezuela.”

“Scott. I’m being serious.”

“So am I. I’m dead broke. Turns out hiring private detectives is only worthwhile if they get you the insurance pay-out in the end.”

“Will you _listen_?” He’d brought one hand up to her neck and the other to her waist, and his thumb had slid beneath the edge of her coat to rub against the thin fabric of her jumper. It was cold and a little damp and very distracting. “I’m trying to explain that I’m dangerous.”

“I could have told you that.” His voice had dropped half an octave, and he delivered the last line right into her ear before angling just a little lower so his lips could trace the soft and ever so sensitive skin in the groove behind her jaw. “I love your hair like this.”

Despite everything, she had to smile. “It’s not all that flattering.”

“It’s _you_.” His fingers against her scalp felt amazing.

 _Oh, sod it_ , she thought, arching her back against the press of his hand. “Yours or mine?”

Baker Street was only a short walk, but distance wasn’t the only issue. His tone shifted. “Is Sherlock home?”

“No idea,” she said, her hands twisting in his jacket to pull him closer, which was good, and off balance, which was even better. “Does it matter?”

Jo could feel his mouth curving into a grin against her neck. She stepped away and broke into a jog, leading him back onto the street and toward home.

“Your landlady—” he said as she fumbled with the key.

“On a cruise, and anyhow she never comes all the way up to my floor.”

“Think we’ll make it that far?”

“When I said I didn’t care if Sherlock was here, I didn’t mean I actually wanted her present.”

“Intriguing thought,” he said, then grinned when she swatted at him. They all but fell inside. The flat was quiet, filled with the pleasant homey smells of tea and bacon and sulfur. Scott peered up the stairs. “It’s dark up there. She must be out.”

“Sometimes she forgets to switch the lamp on when she’s thinking. Why are we still talking about Sherlock?”

They made it up both flights, because Jo wasn’t risking a repeat performance of the last time they’d tried this at the flat. She reached for the light and watched him shrug out of his jacket. “Are you—”

“Joanna,” he said, not in the voice she was hoping to hear, his eyes fixed on something behind her. “Who is that?”

She turned, her right hand going to her hip for the third time that day.

It was the wrong response. Sitting at the head of Jo’s bed, dressed in a red hooded jumper and hugging her arms tight around her knees, was Maddy Parsons.

“Oh,” Jo said, all the air sweeping out of her.

“I’ve seen her,” Scott said in confusion. “On the news, was it?”

“Yes,” Jo said, but not to him. She took three wary steps to the bedside, not quite daring to reach out to the girl. She looked unharmed. Her brown hair was in two neat braids and her clothes were clean, but her eyes were too wide. “You’ve been all over the telly, love, but you’re safe now.” The girl blinked and took a harsh little breath. Jo sat gingerly at the foot of her bed, careful to leave a wide space between them. “It’s Maddy, isn’t it?”

“My God,” Scott said, understanding.

Jo didn’t turn to him. _Sherlock_ , she thought, but someone else had a prior claim on this. “Scott, you want six on my speed-dial. It’s DI Lestrade. He’ll know how to reach her parents.” Maddy’s eyes flicked between the two of them, uncertain, as he fumbled in Jo’s coat pocket. Jo offered her a smile. “I’m very glad to see you. Are you hurt?”

Maddy shook her head. “Are you Joanna?” she asked.

Jo swallowed. “I am. Who told you my name?” Scott was speaking into the phone, but she had tuned him out.

“The Big Bad Wolf,” Maddy said. “That’s what he said. He thought it was funny.”

She’d bet he had.

“I’m meant to tell you,” Maddy said, then stopped.

Jo was torn between compassion and desperate impatience. In the end, compassion won out. “It’s all right. You can tell me later. You don’t have to say anything now.”

“I _have_ to tell you, he said I did,” Maddy said. “He said to say he likes your hair.”

Jo reached up to her scalp, where the short strands slipped through her fingers in a way that was still unfamiliar. “Was that all?”

“No.” The knuckles of her little hands were white with strain. “He said he could have killed me if he wanted to. He said my neck would snap even easier than yours.”

Behind her, Scott dropped the phone.

“What is it?” Jo demanded, her voice unnaturally loud in her ears. When he didn’t say anything, didn’t even lean down to pick it up, she turned away from the figure on the bed and got it herself. It was easier by far than looking at Maddy Parsons, who had nearly died because of her.

The screen held a text from an unrecognised number.

 

 _Like Valerie Hammond, I always repay my debts._

 

Scott stared at her. “It’s all right,” Jo said. “We’ll deal with it later. Is Lestrade on his way?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She turned back to the girl. “He’s gone,” she said. “He can’t hurt you here.” She held out a hand, hoping to find her arms full of trembling child, but Maddy just looked at her. They sat there in silence until the first of the police cars arrived, sirens wailing out of time with the rise and fall of Jo’s breath.

The flat was soon filled with police, most of whom she didn’t recognise, and Maddy Parsons was handed off to someone else. Jo excused herself to the loo and took advantage of the two minutes of privacy to stash her gun in the tampon box under the sink. She came out to meet Lestrade in the kitchen and offered him tea. When she went to fill the kettle, she found a plate and utensils sitting in the drying rack and a washing sponge in the sink. She picked up the sponge and stared at the crust of—yes, breadcrumbs and bacon grease. She resisted the urge to throw the whole lot in the fireplace. Sherlock would want to see it.

She gave her statement clearly and concisely. There wasn’t much to say, and it took just enough time for the kettle to start boiling. No sooner had she finished than the front door slammed open and footsteps came pounding up the stairs.

“Get out of my way,” snapped a familiar voice. The cluster of Yarders in the sitting room parted like the Red Sea for Sherlock, who looked impossibly tall and even gaunter than she had that morning. Under her arm was a manila envelope. She tossed this to one side. “Joanna?”

“In here,” Jo said. “There’s tea.”

“I don’t want tea,” Sherlock said. “There are four police cars outside and the dish-soap from the doorknob was Mrs. Hudson’s preferred brand.”

“I know,” Jo said. “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed, but I think Moriarty prefers bacon and toast to porridge.” She was mixing up her fairy-tales. “Little Red Riding-hood wasn’t the one with the porridge, was she?”

Sherlock stared at her as though she’d lost her mind. Then light dawned. “She’s here.”

“Maddy Parsons? She was,” said Lestrade. “She’ll be with her parents now. Where have you been? You haven’t answered any of my texts.”

“I’ve had more interesting ones,” Sherlock said. She tossed her mobile to Jo. The last message read, “ _Be sure you don’t let your dog off her leash.”  
_  
Released from giving his own statement, Scott chose that moment to join them. He and Lestrade exchanged an awkward nod, but it was Jo he really wanted. “What does this have to do with Val?”

Jo had scrolled to the previous message on Sherlock’s phone and found it was the twin of the one she’d got before. “I don’t know. Sherlock, why would he mention that?”

“To unnerve you,” Sherlock said. She’d lit on the drying dishes now and was making her own examination of the sponge. “And because he had an interest in that, too. You’ll remember I said it was an odd mix of professionalism and incompetence.”

“Wait,” Jo said. “Moriarty killed Valerie Hammond?”

“No, of course not. Her murderer’s safely in jail. But a hired assassin needs investors and contacts just like any other small business, and who better to provide them? We knew someone was keeping an eye on that case and tipped off Wilkins when we were getting close.”

“He murdered my wife,” Scott said, uninterested in technicalities. “This man who bombed your flat and kidnapped an eight-year-old girl, he’s the one who murdered my wife?”

“So it would seem,” said Sherlock.

Jo rose on instinct and turned to him, but he pulled his hand away. “I need—I need to think,” he said. Then he asked Lestrade, “Are we done here?”

“We are,” Lestrade said.

“We’ll talk later,” Scott said, not quite meeting Jo’s eyes.

“Scott,” she started, but there wasn’t anything else to say. He needed to think, and her flat was full of police.

Clearly uncomfortable after he had gone, Lestrade dispersed his team and told them he’d be in touch. The door closed behind them with a hollow sound. Jo got up, walked to the sink, and poured all her tea down the drain.

“I went to the Mostyn Gardens Clinic while you were out,” Sherlock said.

That was where Ella Thompson had practised. She’d never told Sherlock her psychiatrist’s name, but their letterhead had been on every notice they’d sent her. Jo kneaded her temples with her thumb and forefinger. “Why’s that?”

“I was testing a hypothesis. It paid off.”

“What did you find?”

“Clear evidence of a break-in some time ago,” Sherlock said. “Clear enough to have been left deliberately, just like the grease and crumbs. And I found this.” She handed Jo the envelope she’d brought to the flat.

Jo slit it open and pulled out a copy of her own chart, Ella’s familiar handwriting on every page. “You’ve been doing a little breaking-in of your own.”

“I haven’t read it.”

“You haven’t?”

“I thought you’d prefer it if I didn’t,” Sherlock said.

“You were right about that,” Jo said, staring at her. “I’m just surprised that stopped you.”

Sherlock waved this off. “Read it yourself. I need to know what’s in there.”

She’d been so drug-addled in those first few sessions, when Ella had come out to see her in Birmingham, that she might have talked about the bull pup or the clarinet or her childhood ambitions to be an astronaut, for all she could remember now. “You think Moriarty’s been using my therapist’s notes?”

“I’m all but certain. I took the liberty of glancing through the records filed near yours.”

“Charles Harris was a patient there,” Jo said, understanding now.

“As were Paul Griffiths, Roberta Anderson, and James Farwell,” Sherlock said, naming the banker, the doctor, and the owner of the bull pup. “We have our connection.”

“We need to warn them,” Jo said. “We need to warn all the other patients at that clinic.”

“Unnecessary. I told you, he’s done with that game. He wouldn’t have left us the weapon otherwise.”

“If you’re wrong, more of them will die, and this time it will be our fault. You need to tell Lestrade.”

She met that pale glare with calm assurance, and this time it was Sherlock who backed down. “As you like.”

“Now, Sherlock. Text him now. Go down to the Yard if you have to.”

She nodded stiffly.

“Thank you,” Jo said. “I’ll read this tonight.”

“Where are you going?”

“Sarah called while we were at the restaurant,” Jo said, which was a lie. “They could use me for a few hours, and I could use a bit of normal.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t question this further. “You don’t have your gun.”

“It’s in the cupboard under the sink.”

“You should take it with you.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

No-one had ever accused Sherlock Holmes of being slow on the uptake. “You wouldn’t have shot him, Joanna.”

“Maybe not. I don’t want to talk about it.”

She took a cab. She didn’t usually do that on her own, but it was still raining and this wasn’t an interview she wanted to conduct soaking wet. She sent a text en route to be certain she’d be let in, and twenty minutes later Jo found herself once again in Mycroft Holmes’ large and aggressively masculine office. His keen eyes glinted at her in the dim light. “Dr. Watson. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I think you know.”

“Ah yes, I’ve been tracking Sherlock’s activities of late with some interest. You’re lucky Mr. Sutton won’t press charges.”

“You’d get me out of them if he did,” Jo said.

He smiled. “Why so certain of that? I’m a busy man, Dr. Watson, and no matter what Sherlock may say, my resources are far from infinite.”

“You’d get me out of them because you think it’s what’s best for Sherlock right now. You know how dangerous Moriarty is, which makes me wonder why you haven’t taken him down yourself.”

“A fascinating question. I regret to say that claims of my omniscience are as inaccurate as claims of my omnipotence. I haven’t ‘taken him down’, as you so charmingly put it, because I lack the time, the manpower, and the inclination. He is frustratingly difficult to lay hands on and certainly has had a distressing effect on the London crime rate, but on the list of threats to national stability he ranks lower than you might expect. I have, as they say, bigger fish to fry. No, I believe it’s far better for everyone concerned if Sherlock manages this on her own. She’s quite capable.”

“And if things go wrong? People have died, Mr. Holmes.”

“Tragically so. As you of all people are aware, they will continue to do so whether Moriarty remains free or not.”

“What if Sherlock’s one of them?” He wasn’t entirely successful at hiding his reaction to this suggestion. Good. She was counting on some brotherly feeling, complicated though it might be by the occasional desire to strangle Sherlock. Jo could sympathise, after all.

“Do you think that likely, Dr. Watson?”

“I don’t think it’s impossible. If things keep on as they are, I think it’s inevitable.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

Jo’s back was ramrod straight. It felt easier to lift her head now that the weight of her hair was shorn away. “I want you to send me back to Afghanistan.”

His eyebrows rose. The look of surprise was affected, but the surprise itself was not. “I can think of any number of objections.”

“I’m recovered,” Jo said, holding out the hand he’d taken on their first meeting. “I’m fit for service.”

“Those weren’t the objections I had in mind. How precisely will your leaving the country benefit my sister?”

“I’m a distraction,” Jo said. “She’s worried Moriarty’s going to follow through on his threat, even if she hasn’t said so. She’s paying nearly as much attention to me as she is to the case.”

“I find that unlikely.”

“She’s making concessions to my needs.”

“A truly alarming development,” he said dryly, but Jo could tell he was considering this. “I do see your point. I suspect, however, that you have other reasons for coming here.”

“I do,” Jo said steadily. “I have my own reasons for wanting out, but you probably know them already. They’re not important now. I’m telling you what you need to hear, Mr. Holmes, but I’m also telling you the truth: I can give Sherlock some physical protection, but I can’t do anything to help her solve this case. Rationally, she’s better off without me. Moriarty used me against her once before. He’s trying it again, and it’s working.”

“I don’t suppose you need me to point out the irony inherent in fleeing to a war zone to get out of harm’s way.” He tilted his head to one side, staring down that long nose at Jo. It made her feel like a curious but ultimately insignificant specimen in one of Sherlock’s petri dishes. She didn’t appreciate it, but she stood her ground. “I would hate for us both to regret a rash decision. Are you certain this is what you want?”

“I am.”

“The arrangements will take some time,” he said. She doubted that was true but didn’t press the point. “Consider it a little longer, Dr. Watson. If you still believe this is necessary a week from now, I think I can help you.”

“It’s not me I’m asking you to help,” Jo said. “Keep that in mind.”

“Humour me. The situation may not be as desperate as you think. My sister is not one to let personal distractions get in the way of her professional life.”

“I’ll think about it, but I won’t change my mind.” Not when she couldn’t trust herself to carry her own weapon, and not when Moriarty was willing to use a child’s life against her.

“My assistant will show you to the door,” he said. “Good day, Dr. Watson.”


	10. The Long Game (Section 4)

Jo returned to the flat convinced Sherlock would have it all out of her in seconds. Instead they spent the evening poring over every detail of Maddy Parson’s statement and tracking down every clue she revealed. The trail led them from the West End to Whitehall, had them hopping back and forth across the Thames and racing for five miles along the Embankment, and then—nowhere.

Sherlock stood looking out over the river, no doubt thinking furiously. Not long ago she’d have revelled in this. Not long ago she _had_ revelled in this, but the exuberance had bled out of her. Jo leaned against a convenient bench and didn’t think at all. Her back was acting up again, and she hadn’t slept in ages.

Then Sherlock turned to her, accusation written all over her. _Here it comes_ , Jo thought.

“You’re still not wearing your gun.”

It was true. She’d left it under the sink, but that wasn't what she had expected Sherlock to say. “You haven’t noticed ‘till now?”

“I’ve been busy,” Sherlock said. “Why haven't you brought it?”

“It’s not like you to ask a question when you already know the answer.”

“So it is because of Sutton. You’re an idiot.”

“Probably.”

“You’re playing right into his hands.” The pronoun did not refer to Sutton.

 _Not anymore_. Aloud she said, “Are we done here?”

“Unless you know of another spot in London with this precise composition of clay and gravel, yes.”

“Let’s go home, Sherlock.” She was a little surprised when that worked.

Scott was off work the next day. Jo was half relieved and half disappointed when he answered the buzzer.

“Hey,” he said. She couldn’t quite read his face. She didn’t like that.

“Hey,” she answered. “Is this a bad time?”

“I was going to ring you last night,” he said. “I wanted to ask you for some time apart.”

That should have made things easier, but it hurt. Jo tried not to let it show. “I understand.”

Scott shook his head. “I was wrong, and it only took me one night to work that out. I don’t want space. I want you here. This is too much, I was wrong about that too, but that’s just the point. It’s insane for either of us to try managing it on our own, and we don’t have to.”

“Scott—”

“Joanna,” he said. Before she’d only thought him the warmest man she knew, but now there was a searing heat in his eyes, and it wasn’t so selfish, was it, to put this off? She could go in and let them have a little more time. What she had to say would keep.

 _Coward_ , she thought. “Scott, I’m sorry.”

He let her in anyway, and they sat at opposite ends of his sofa while she explained.

“So,” he said at last, “you’re asking me to be an army wife after all.”

She tried a smile, but it didn’t come out at all right. “I’m not asking for that.”

“I know, and I’m not offering.”

She couldn’t fault him for having a sense of self-preservation. “It’s over, then.”

“What did you expect?”

“Just that, I suppose,” she said, aching with everything else she wanted to say, with the fact that she was very probably in love with this man but they’d never have time to work out what that meant.

In the end they were very adult about it. He didn’t try to talk her out of it, and she didn’t cry on his shoulder. Instead he walked her back to the door and kissed her cheek. She pulled him close, breathing him in one last time, and let him go. Then she turned and went home.

“You’ve been to Scott Morstan’s,” Sherlock said just before noon. She looked up at Jo from over the open flame of her Bunsen burner. “Why didn’t you stay longer?”

Jo was scraping out the Styrofoam container with the remnants of last night’s takeway. “We split up,” she said, her hands never pausing.

Sherlock watched her a moment longer, and then she went back to the dubious contents of the Erlenmeyer flask she’d been keeping behind the tinned tomatoes.

That evening, Jo called her sister to see if she could meet for lunch again that week.

They chatted comfortably about small things, just like sisters were meant to be able to do. A month and a half ago Jo would have been pathetically grateful that they could manage it. The longer she put it off, the harder it was going to be, so after twenty minutes about Harry’s new kitchen set and the maddening assistant editor at her office Jo put her fork down and said, “Look, Harry.”

Her sister’s good mood dissolved on the spot. “You didn’t just ask me here because you wanted to see me, did you.”

Jo thought about denying it, but this was Harry. Sometimes she felt they’d never understood each other at all, and sometimes her sister could read her better than Sherlock and Ginzberg put together. “I have something to tell you.”

Harry drew a sharp breath, the sort of draught smokers took to steady themselves, but cigarettes had never been Harry’s thing. “I’m not going to like this, am I.”

Might as well get it all right out. “I’ve put in for another tour.”

That pretty face, so like and so unlike Jo’s, went flat. “No.”

“Harry, I had to.”

“Don’t give me that line,” Harry said. “Not the one about duty and honour and the Watson name.”

“I’ve never once said that.”

“You didn’t have to, not when you had Dad doing it for you,” Harry said, and this was going to be twelve years ago all over again, wasn’t it, just like when she’d first signed up. Their parents were gone now, but the Watson girls would be damned if they couldn’t keep up the family tradition of guilt trips and shouting matches and disappointed expectations. “Still crawling after him, Jo?”

“That’s not why—”

“Isn’t it?” Harry demanded. “You’ve been shot and called defective and sent home, and now the moment you can you’re going straight back to a war you don’t even believe in. Tell me why. Give me one good reason.”

It was difficult to think like this, to keep calm in the face of this open spite, especially when a substantial part of her thought she probably deserved it. “I can’t stay here. Things are happening, Harry, things I can’t explain right now, and I’m losing myself. I can’t live with what it’s doing to me. I feel, I don’t know. I feel _twisted_ , and I need out.”

“You feel, do you? Jo Watson admits to _feeling_ something. Miraculous, that is. And you think the army’s going to sort you out? You can’t live with whatever ‘twisted’ you’ve got here, so you’d rather live with the things you do there?”

That, she didn’t have to take. “You mean saving lives? That is what I do, you know, and it’s a damn sight better than moping around with a glass in my hand and ruining the only relationship I’d ever managed to keep for any length of time.”

“You don’t know a thing about it,” Harry said. “You don’t know a thing about me and Clara.”

“Of course I do. I know all about you and Clara. She phoned me in Afghanistan, did you know that? I talked to her every week, right through the break-up, but then you wouldn’t have noticed, would you? You weren’t interested in noticing anything but the bottom of a bottle.”

“Trust you to bring that up when I’m three months sober. Three months. Do you know what that means? Have you got any idea, Jo? It’s the hardest thing I’ve done in my life.”

“I know,” said Jo, because she did. She meant it to be apologetic, but somehow it came out as an accusation.

Harry went on as though she hadn’t heard her. “The hardest thing, and I need help. You know I do, and you know how hard it it is just to say that, and you’re still going to leave me now. I’m here and I need you, which is more than Dad ever did.”

“Back to that again, are we?”

“I’m not the one who can’t let go of it. He wanted a son,” Harry said, looking at Jo with something just the hateful side of pity. “What he got was a lipstick lesbian and a tomboy with a medical degree. You were just the next best thing, but don’t let yourself think you ever made it up to him.”

Jo curled her hands around her mug, fingers tightening until it hurt. She could feel the steep descending spiral, familiar from all those times they’d tried playing nice in the years that had come before. It always started with Harry at the flash point and ended with Jo in a long, resentful burn, but just for a while she’d allowed herself to think it wouldn’t happen this time.

“ _Ow_.”

Jo glanced up from her coffee to see Harry wince, bringing up a hand to shield her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone just stuck a fucking laser pointer right in my eye. Don’t change the subject.”

Jo was about to point out that this, at least, was hardly her fault when that familiar sense of deadly calm took her. “A laser pointer?”

“Some kid, probably. I don’t—”

“Get _down_.” Harry didn’t move, of course, but Jo was already out of her seat. The cups and plates went flying and her shin met the table leg hard enough to bruise. Then they were both on the floor, screams ringing in her ears as the front window came shattering down and the cafe dissolved into utter panic.

She pressed her sister between the cold tile and her own body, listening for the next shot. “Oh, God,” Harry said in her ear.

“Shh,” Jo said. Keep quiet and still, that was the first thing, until you could get a fix on the shooter. Her gun, why on earth hadn't she brought her gun?

“Jo,” Harry breathed.

Line of sight was important. Surely he couldn’t see them now, wherever he was, not with all those other people in the way. Across the street there had been a block of flats, and he might have shot from there. That would mean they were safe for now. Quiet and still, work out the line of sight, and then you could care for the wounded.

The wounded.

That was blood soaking the side of her neck. She raised a hand and found unbroken flesh underneath, then pulled back just far enough to see the neat hole punched in the front of Harry’s blouse.

“Jo,” Harry said again, this time in a whisper so faint it was little more than a breath.

This part was easy, she remembered this part. “All right,” Jo said. “It’s all right.” She snatched up the cloth napkin that had fallen beside them, folded it into quarters, and pressed it over the spreading stain. “You’re fine, Harry, I’m here and you’re fine. It’s all right.” That seemed unlikely given how badly Jo’s hands were shaking, which they’d never done under fire and certainly not while stopping a bleed. She tried to say something reassuring, but she couldn’t even get her sister’s name out, her teeth were chattering so hard. She clamped her mouth shut instead and sat there on a floor slippery with red, and when at last the paramedics arrived they had to pry her off to get at the wound.

She came back to herself in the ambulance as she watched the paramedics go through all the familiar motions and followed the unsteady track of Harry’s heart on the monitor. By the time it became necessary to decompress a traumatic pneumothorax she could have managed it on her own if asked. The bleeding body under their gloved hands now occupied the twin categories of “family” and “patient”, but Jo could deal with that in a rational manner. It had been a moment of weakness, one she could forgive herself. The important thing now was what happened next.

She didn’t question it when she was ushered into the observation area during the surgery, didn’t even question being handed a set of clean clothing (not hers, but definitely her size and probably more flattering than anything she actually owned) while she sat there in a clotting shirt. The source of it all appeared when they were on the twelfth pint of blood and sat next to her in a spotless suit to watch the proceedings.

“When?” asked Mycroft Holmes.

“I need to know if she’ll recover.”

“Naturally.”

“A few days. It may be more or less, depending on how she comes through this.”

“Very well. Does Sherlock know you’ve spoken to me?”

“I haven’t told her.” He just looked at Jo, because of course that hadn’t answered the question. “She doesn’t know. I think that’s proof, if you still need it, that she’s distracted. You’ll both be better off if you send me away.”

“I see that. I should warn you the shooting has made the news. She’ll have heard by now.”

Sherlock would keep. “Thank you. I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. My sympathies, Dr. Watson,” he said, and then he left as silently as he’d come.

*********

Sherlock didn’t meet her at home. When Jo walked out into the waiting area several hours later, she was sitting in a plastic chair wrapped in that ridiculous coat, her gaze fixed with great intensity on nothing at all. At the sound of Jo’s footsteps she looked up, revealing a fist-sized bruise just beneath her left eye.

“What happened?” Jo asked, mindful that it should have been the other way around.

“A miscalculation,” Sherlock said. “Not my first on this case.” It was strange to look down her from above. She looked—not vulnerable, precisely, but wary. Then she spoiled the effect by standing up. “I take it the surgery was successful.”

“It went well. You’re much too tall,” Jo said. “It shouldn’t be allowed.”

Sherlock blinked down at her.

“Do you need medical attention?” Jo asked.

“No.” Jo caught a reassuring hint of disdain in that syllable.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Sherlock kept sneaking glances at her as they left, but it wasn’t until the cab pulled away from the kerb outside Baker Street that she said, “I’d have thought you would stay at the hospital.”

“Harry’s just been through major surgery. I have a few hours at least, and they’ll call me if anything changes. I’m having a shower and a lie-down while I can.”

“That’s practical.”

“Didn’t think you liked sentimentality.”

“It’s not my sister who’s been shot.”

Jo unlocked the door and led the way in. “And if it had been Mycroft, you’d be weeping tears over his limp form, I suppose. Who hit you?”

“Mid-twenties, single, heavy smoker but only a light drinker, plays rugby on weekends but not at all well. He was the one who broke into your therapist’s office. Lestrade has him in custody, but he’s just a foot-soldier. He won’t tell us anything important.”

“You went after him without me?”

Sherlock’s eyes were eerily pale in the dark of the stairwell. “As I said, a miscalculation. I intended it as a fact-finding expedition. Things got complicated.”

“They do that. Sherlock, you need to be more careful.”

“Why start now?”

 _Because I won’t be here for much longer_ , Jo thought. “He’s traded in his handgun for a sniper’s rifle. If he decides he wants you dead, you won’t see it coming.”

“He can’t kill me,” Sherlock said. She moved with a restless grace into the sitting room, shedding coat and jacket onto the nearest convenient surfaces.

Jo leaned against the door-frame, watching her. “Why not?”

Sherlock rubbed her hands together, but not in a satisfied way. She looked drawn. Jo wondered when she’d slept last. “For two excellent reasons. The first is that if I am ever unable to access the the internet for more than seventy-two hours, emails containing sufficient information to cripple the London branch of Moriarty’s organisation will be sent from multiple addresses to most of the crime journalists in the city and to every employee of Scotland Yard, not to mention certain members of the British government.”

“Why not send them now?”

“I said the London branch,” Sherlock said. “This is a beast of many heads. Cutting only one of them off would be useless and dangerous besides.”

“What’s the second reason?”

“Mycroft.”

Of course. “He’s not above pulling strings for personal reasons.”

“In the smaller things, certainly not. Recovering your weapon and ensuring our safety in the A&E cost him little enough. It would require everything he has to finish Moriarty, but if I died he might just be willing.”

“He would be,” Jo said. Of that she had no doubt. “But you’re trusting Moriarty to be cautious. That doesn’t sound like him.”

“No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t sound at all like Jim Ryder,” Sherlock said.

“Jim—”

“Ryder. That is, or was, his real name. He looks like no-one, Joanna; born of an ordinary family, given an ordinary education, worked his way through ordinary jobs, but there are hints if you search hard enough. His parents must have known. They had him in therapy from the age of six. But his schoolmates, his co-workers, none of them thought anything at all of him. Then at the age of twenty-three he disappears.”

Jo stared at her. “You know who he is. How long have you known?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does! I don’t understand. If you know who he is, why can’t you have him arrested?”

“Because dangerous and brilliant as he is, he’s only a man, and Moriarty is so much more than that.” She said it in an odd, reflective tone, as though the words weren’t hers at all. She shook her head. “I have a face and a name, but I couldn’t tell you what he ate for dinner yesterday or where he sleeps at night. He’s a dozen disparate parts, and I can’t connect them, Joanna. I’ve been reduced to guesswork. I can’t prove anything. If I move with anything less than absolute certainty, I’ll lose him.”

Jo was used to hearing Sherlock pull deductions out of thin air, but to have her point at a name and a person and call it useless was beyond anticlimax. She’d been through too much in the last several hours to absorb this now. “I need a shower,” she said. She’d washed at the hospital, but it had just been a quick scrub of face and hands. Now she could feel flakes of dried blood behind her ear.

“Joanna,” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry.”

Far too much to absorb. “What for?”

That wary look was back, but now Jo thought she might have been right to call it vulnerable. “I was wrong. You warned me about collateral damage, and I dismissed you.”

“I don’t blame you, for God’s sake,” Jo said. “You’re not the one who painted a target on my sister. Or Maddy Parsons, or Paul Griffiths, or any of them. There’s nothing _you_ can do to stop it.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. It was a far more familiar expression, and Jo was relieved to see it back.“What does that mean?”

Jo had put this off long enough. “I’m sorry too.”

Sherlock took a step forward, her whole body trained on Jo. There was the focus she’d been missing. “What could you have to be sorry for?”

Jo almost laughed. “You know, the fact that you’ve managed not to notice just proves I’m right.”

“What have I missed?” Sherlock demanded. “What—Joanna, that isn’t your clothing.”

Jo crossed her arms and waited.

“You met someone at the hospital. Someone who knew you’d be there, someone who got you into a restricted area.” And there it was. “Why have you been talking with my brother?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Tell me what? You broke things off with Morstan. You met Harry today. To warn them away? No, you wouldn’t apologise to me for that.” This was the moment of revelation Jo had been waiting for. “You’re leaving, and you need Mycroft’s help, which can only mean he’s sending you back.”

“As soon as Harry’s stable enough.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Joanna,” she said. “I’ve done nothing to drive you away.”

“Really not about you for once, Sherlock.”

“I’ve been careful. I’ve given you space. I’ve been _accommodating_.”

Jo sighed. “I’m having that shower. We can talk after about the rent.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows had drawn dangerously close. “You really mean to do this. What do you think you’ll accomplish?”

“Even I can see he’s using me against you.”

“More fool him.”

“You’ll have a better chance without me.”

“This isn’t for my benefit,” Sherlock said. “You’re not doing this out of blind loyalty or concern for my well-being, though I’ve no doubt that’s the line you fed so effectively to Mycroft.”

“All right,” Jo said, lifting her chin. “That’s true. It’s also because, God forbid, I feel a scrap of responsibility to someone other than you.”

“You think your leaving will stop Moriarty?”

“He can’t threaten me if I’m out of reach,” Jo said. “I may not be what he cares about, but it’s me he’s chosen to use. Harry’s been shot. People are dying because of me, and that’s one thing I won’t have.”

“Guilt is useless. I don’t have time for you to indulge—”

“Indulge in what, Sherlock? In a bit of human feeling? In the fact that, willing or not, I bear some part of the responsibility for those deaths? In the fact that I bear full responsibility for whatever it drives me to? Less than a week ago I drew a gun on an unarmed man with full intent to kill, and that was before Moriarty put a bullet in my sister’s body. I’m not interested in finding out what that makes me capable of.”

“Ah yes,” Sherlock said, mouth twisting in her most cutting smile. “I forgot I was dealing with a woman of principle. _In Arduis Fidelis_ , isn’t that right?”

“Don’t,” Jo said. “Don’t you dare throw that in my face.”

Jo had prepared herself for almost any reaction. She’d anticipated denial or tantrums or sulking of epic proportions; she’d steeled herself for red-hot fury or bitter resentment. The one thing she hadn’t considered was utter contempt. Sherlock had looked on snivelling blackmailers with less loathing than she trained on Jo now. “No, I know you, Joanna Watson: the loyal soldier to the last, or at least until you don’t like what you see in the mirror. Then you’re willing enough to run.”

Her back drawn up stiffly, Jo spat, “You don’t get to call me a coward.”

“Your word,” Sherlock said. “Not mine.” She threw Jo one last, scornful look and left the room.

From then on things were different. It wasn’t as though they’d never argued. There had been squabbles, some pettier than others, but they’d all petered out eventually. Jo had grown used to Sherlock ignoring her in a fit of pique or forgetting her entirely when there was something more interesting on, but it was a different matter to share a flat with a woman who would acknowledge her existence for precisely the amount of time it took to express cold disgust. Not that Sherlock was around much over the next few days, but she never told Jo where she had gone, and Jo didn’t ask.

The evening after Harry was well enough to carry on a brief conversation, incoherent though it was through the drugs and the exhaustion, Jo decided there was no point in hanging about Baker Street any longer. She packed what little she had and moved in to Harry’s flat, which had the dual advantages of being unoccupied and having a better-stocked kitchen.

Her interactions were limited to technical conversations with her sister’s nurses and doctors and the occasional concerned call from friends. She spent half an hour on the phone with Scott, who sounded worried, but she turned down his offer to meet up. Lestrade and Sally Donovan both sent cautious messages to which Jo replied with thanks and assurances of her own well-being. Clara alone stopped by in person, in tears and confused about whether she ought to visit the hospital, but Jo didn’t feel equipped to answer that for her.

Otherwise, she was alone. The isolation should have been unbearable. Instead she found it soothing. A few short days and privacy would be a thing of the past, so she might as well enjoy it while she could. If more bodies were turning up with her name scrawled all over them, she didn’t hear about it, and if she woke in the middle of the night wishing for Scott’s arm around her waist or the sound of a violin from downstairs, at least no-one ever had to know it but herself.

Jo took to wearing her Browning again. She’d tried to talk herself out of it, but sometimes when she stepped out for milk or take-out the weight of it at her hip was all that kept her grounded. Soon enough it wouldn’t matter.

On the fifth day after surgery Harry was moved out of Intensive Care and Jo spoke to Mycroft for the last time. He promised a car at her door at seven the next morning, and when she offered polite thanks he assured her he’d let her know how she could make it up to him. She hung up as quickly as she could and set about cutting the last of her ties to London.

Just before five, her phone rang. It was the receptionist at Dr. Ginzberg’s office.

“She’s concerned that you’ve cancelled your appointments,” he said. “Can I ask if something’s wrong?”

“I’m leaving the country,” Jo said, which she hoped would finish the conversation. Instead there was a short silence, and then Dr. Ginzberg herself came on the line.

“Dr. Watson, what’s happened?”

Jo pinched the bridge of her nose. She’d been hoping to avoid this particular discussion. “I’m being redeployed. It was last-minute, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“I don’t care about the inconvenience,” Ginzberg said sharply. “What’s really going on? We both know they wouldn’t take you back for active duty with your current diagnosis.”

“They’ve expedited the paperwork. Look, I do feel rotten about this. We should have talked about it.”

“We’re talking now. Don’t you think this is too sudden? The last time we spoke you were concerned about your own state of mind.”

“I know. That’s all fine now.”

“Forgive me if I don’t accept that at face value,” she said. Jo could hear the worry in her voice; it was all very professional, but she was clearly rattled. “I’d like to see you before you leave. As soon as possible, in fact.”

“I leave tomorrow morning.”

“Now will do.” Jo hesitated. “Dr. Watson, I’m concerned. Please come in. Or I can come to you. Are you at home?”

Jo supposed she owed her an explanation. “Don’t bother, I’ll meet you there. Can you wait twenty minutes?”

It was out of hours by the time she arrived at the office, but the ever-present receptionist was still at his desk, and as Jo walked past the other offices she could see the lights that meant Ginzberg’s partners were also working late.

She knocked twice and was invited in. Ginzberg rose when Jo entered, and they stood there looking at one another.

“You can’t talk me out of it,” Jo said.

“That’s not my job,” Ginzberg replied. “Sit down.”

She was so calm and reasonable, and Jo would have liked nothing better than to pour it all out and have her make sense of it, but she’d made her decision. “I can stand.”

“Sit down, Dr. Watson. I’m not in any hurry.”

“I’m leaving,” Jo said. “I chose this, and it’s better for everyone.”

“What’s changed?”

“My sister’s been shot, that’s what’s changed. And you were wrong. I am dangerous.”

“Sit down and tell me why you believe that.”

It would be easier to show her, and Jo was sick of hiding. She took off her coat and hung it on the rack just inside the door. Next she reached for her waist and unclipped the concealed holster at her side. Ginzberg’s eyes widened slightly, but otherwise she didn’t react.

Jo held up the Browning with its muzzle pointed at the floor. “Are you going to report me?” she asked. It came out as a challenge, though she hadn’t meant it to.

Ginzberg took a long look at the gun, then raised her eyes to Jo’s. “You’re familiar with doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“There are exceptions.” Legally speaking, Jo wasn’t sure whether they included the very illicit possession of firearms, but she imagined a case could be made for it.

“I’m not going to report you. I’m also not going to have this conversation while you’re holding a weapon. On the desk, if you don’t mind.”

“Fair enough.” Jo put it there between them, watching the way Ginzberg’s eyes followed it, and then she pulled a chair up to the desk to sit with her hands folded in her lap.

“All right, you’ve made your point. Now start at the beginning. What’s this about Harry?”

Ginzberg listened in silence, patient as ever. When Jo had finished, she crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “You’ve rid yourself of Scott, Harry, and Sherlock all at once. When you do a thing, you do it properly. Tomorrow morning, you said?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not concerned about leaving your sister to recover on her own?”

“Of course I’m concerned,” Jo said. “I’m more concerned about what’ll happen if I stay.”

“So I gathered.”

The mobile in Jo’s trouser pocket vibrated twice. Her hand twitched, but she didn’t reach for it. “Sorry, I’ve been leaving it on in case the hospital rings.” A text meant it wasn’t about Harry, which meant it could wait.

“That’s fine. How did you manage it?”

Answering that required explaining Mycroft without actually explaining Mycroft, which was far from simple. Jo ignored the furious vibration of still more texts and did her best. “I see,” Ginzberg said. “Yes, I do see. You said you’ve moved into Harry’s flat. Is anyone there with you?”

“No, who would be?”

“So you haven’t told anyone where you are now?” Jo frowned, and Ginzberg explained, “Someone seems anxious to reach you.”

“I can’t imagine who.” They were interrupted yet again, this time by Jo’s ringtone. Jo sighed. “Sorry. Just a moment.”

It was Sherlock, who hadn’t spoken to her in days and never rang if she could help it. Jo stared down at the screen. Surely she was past this. Her thumb hit _Accept_ , and she raised the phone to her ear, turning her head to one side in a vain bid for privacy.

“I’m busy,” she said. “I leave tomorrow.”

“You switched psychiatrists,” Sherlock said.

It was so far from what she was expecting that Jo didn’t know what to say. “‘That was ages ago.”

“When?”

Jo heard the sound of traffic in the background. Sherlock’s voice was urgent, demanding, which wasn’t nearly unusual enough to explain the call. “I don’t remember the date. A few months, maybe. If this is some last-ditch effort to change my mind you’re going about it all wrong.”

“Was it before or after you moved in?”

“After. During the Valerie Hammond case. I’m hanging up now.”

“ _Don’t_ do that. Why did you leave Dr. Thompson?”

“She moved to Scotland, so I found someone else.” Dr. Ginzberg shifted in Jo’s peripheral vision, but she didn’t look over. “Why do you care?”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Why would I? You never asked how my therapy was going. You just pulled some brilliant deduction out of nowhere and threw it in my face when you thought I needed a good shaking-up.”

“Data, Joanna!” There was exultation in her tone now, as though she’d just pulled the veil away. “I can’t work without data.”

“I don’t understand. Why does it—oh.” Of course. She was very stupid indeed, wasn’t she.

Jo lifted her head to Ginzberg and found herself staring down the barrel of her own gun.


	11. The Long Game (Section 5)

Dr. Ginzberg gave her a wry smile.

The length and quality of Jo’s silence gave her away, or maybe it was just Sherlock’s preternatural ability to know things she shouldn’t. “Where are you?”

Jo cleared her throat. “I’m going to have to go.”

“Joanna. Where are—”

She was cut off by a quiet beep as Jo killed the connection.

Ginzberg nodded politely. “You catch on quickly.”

“Apparently not.”

“Always better with the immediate danger than the long-term situation, aren’t you? I had hoped we’d have time to work through that. Still, you’ve spared me the need to make threats, which I do appreciate. Ignore that,” she added, as Jo’s ring-tone went off again.

“I don’t understand,” Jo said, her mind running along two very different tracks. The surface part of her was still and calm and ready, focused on the location of the room’s two exits and the position of Ginzberg’s trigger finger. The other part roiled in mad confusion, its world thrown out of focus and every carefully-constructed truth of the past few months cracking at the foundations. She would have to deal with that part later, if she ever got the chance. “How did Moriarty get to you? Is it money?” She could not imagine anyone paying this woman off. “Threats?”

“You’ve got it quite wrong,” Ginzberg said. “This was planned from the moment you walked into my office to ask about Valerie Hammond.”

“But I came to you, not the other way around.” Jo’s phone buzzed angrily.

“You are astonishingly easy to lead, Dr. Watson. I suspect that is why Sherlock is so drawn to you.”

“I _trusted_ you. I was getting better.”

“I did tell you recovery is a matter of perspective. I’m afraid we don’t have time to discuss it just now. I imagine it won’t take Sherlock too terribly long to work out who you’ve been seeing. I hadn’t planned for this, and you’ve rather forced my hand.”

“You can’t shoot me,” Jo said. “Someone will hear.”

“Don’t think I won’t do it, but I admit the consequences would be inconvenient,” Ginzberg said, her head tilted in thought. “We may as well use your mobile, since you have it to hand. Please put it on speaker, and then I am going to give you a number to dial. I’d do it myself, but I’ve no intention of risking the distraction.”

Jo did as she was told, then set the phone on the desktop. It rang twice.

The voice on the other end was not the one she had expected. It was older, female, and heavily steeped in Oxbridge. “Who is this, and how did you get this number?”

“It’s Sonia,” Ginzberg said, her eyes still fixed on Jo. “Apologies for the breach of protocol. We have a situation. I’m in the office, and I have company.”

“No names, then.”

“I should think not. Get the others on the line, if you would.”

“And _him_? You know he won’t give me his number.”

“Oh, Jim you can name. She knows him already,” Ginzberg said. “No, we don’t want him just yet.”

The other woman then proceeded to set up a conference call, punctuating the heavy stillness of the office with dial tones and tinny call holding music. It was surreal in its banality.

“The price of collaboration,” Ginzberg said, noting Jo’s confusion. “I don’t expect we’ll get everyone. The Colonel will answer, though, he always does. I do hope you’ll have the chance to meet him in person. You’ll have so much to talk about.”

“Who _are_ you?” Jo asked, wondering at how fast and free the other woman was playing with what she assumed was heavily-guarded information. “Moriarty’s officers?”

Dr. Ginzberg’s mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile, but before she could answer the last connection came through.

“What is it, then?” said a gruff baritone. The Colonel, Jo assumed from the distinctly military bark. _A software programmer, a retired army colonel, and a Cambridge professor of theoretical mathematics._ “What’s he done now?”

“It’s what she’s done that’s the question,” Ginzberg said. “I’ve been compromised.”

“It was just a matter of time,” said the first woman they’d called. “I’ve said this was foolishness from the start.”

“Holmes was going to get here eventually.” Ginzberg sounded eminently reasonable, as though she’d made this argument many times before. “At least now we have some advance notice, and I have a bargaining chip.”

“That being?” The question came from a fourth member of the call. Jo had lost track of how many there were. Sherlock would be furious if she couldn’t keep this straight.

“I’m holding Joanna Watson at gunpoint in my office.”

“You rang in the middle of taking a hostage?” the Colonel demanded.

“This is not my métier,” Ginzberg admitted. Her hand did look awkward on the gun, but Jo had no doubt she would fire without hesitation if pressed to it, so this was small consolation. “I thought, as this affects all of us—”

“Yes,” said the first woman. “Yes, I do see. Our options, I suppose, are to kill her at once or to see if she can still be used.”

“I’d hoped to salvage something from the situation,” Ginzberg said, regarding Jo with a cool calculation. Jo could feel the fury building in her chest, the tiger pacing in its cage.

“Do you suppose Holmes will keep quiet if we hold Watson for her silence?”

“At the very least, it will buy us some time.”

“There’s still the matter of what to do with her in the meantime,” Ginzberg said. “This is where I could use some assistance.”

“I don’t know London well enough to say,” said the other woman.

“There’s the warehouse,” the Colonel said.

“Surely that’s not secure any longer,” said another man.

“It’ll do for now. Take her there.”

“Mycroft Holmes controls every CCTV in the greater London area,” Ginzberg pointed out. “If Sherlock asks, it’ll be easy enough to locate us.”

“How long do we have?”

Ginzberg considered Jo for a moment. “It may take Holmes some time to work out just which psychiatrist Dr. Watson’s been seeing. It won’t be long.”

“Leave now,” the Colonel said. “CCTV can’t get everything. We’ll have to risk it.”

“Still,” Ginzberg said, “we could use a distraction.”

There was silence on the line for the space of a few heartbeats. The first woman said, “Absolutely not.”

“He’s a loose cannon,” said the Colonel.

“In five minutes he could have the city at a standstill,” Ginzberg said. “Mycroft Holmes won’t know where to look, Sherlock will be flying in all directions, and the Yard will have its hands too full to worry about a missing army doctor.”

Another silence. “You’ll have to do it,” said the older woman, reluctant but determined. “Don’t waste time ringing him from there. Leave now, but contact him as soon as you’re out of the office.”

“That’s a mistake,” said a different voice, but Ginzberg drowned her out.

“I rang for advise and as a courtesy, not to put this before a committee. We’re leaving now. Colonel, meet us there. Dr. Watson, do me the favour of hanging up.” Jo did so, every nerve on end as Ginzberg rose from her seat. “Very good. Now leave that phone where it is and move to the far wall.”

“Where are we going?”

“We won’t stay there long. You know how to drive, don’t you?”

It had been ages, but she did, and she vaguely recalled mentioning that in an early session with Ella Thompson. It must have gone in her notes, and then of course Ginzberg had read the file. She was an idiot and an imbecile and every other thing Sherlock had ever called her.

“Listen carefully,” Ginzberg said. “I am going to put on my coat and keep this very useful weapon in my pocket. It will be pointed at your back every step of the way, so I suggest that you refrain from any heroics. Keep in mind that I can as easily shoot the receptionist as you, so you won’t be doing anyone any favours by risking your own life. You will take these keys,” as she pulled them from her pocket and tossed them across the room, “and we will go to the car park just a few blocks away. We will get in my car and you will drive where I tell you to, and if you make a single wrong move I will shoot you in the back.”

“Right,” Jo said. “I’ve got that part, thanks.”

“Stiff upper lip,” Dr. Ginzberg said with a smile. “That’s my Dr. Watson. Don’t disappoint me now.”

In the time it took them to reach the little dark compact in the car park, Jo had devised and discarded a thousand different methods of escape. If she moved quickly enough, she might get out of the line of fire, but her back was still unreliable, and a bit of stiffness at the wrong moment would be fatal. Ginzberg was clever enough to keep her distance, which eliminated the possibility of getting to the gun before she had a chance to get a shot off. Then, too, there were the civilians all around them—the receptionist, a group of accountants from the office suite next door, not to mention the dozens on the street.

She settled behind the wheel and reached for the ignition. There was a half second where she might have had an opening as Ginzberg got into the seat behind her, but with her eyes fixed forward she couldn’t be certain when that was, and she knew her Browning would make short work of the seat back.

“Take a left once you’re on the street,” Ginzberg said, sounding as assured though they were in one of their sessions.

Jo obeyed. “How did you do it?” she asked.

“Right here, and mind you keep at the limit. How did I do what?”

“Get me to choose you. I could have asked for any psychiatrist in London.”

“You liked me,” Ginzberg said simply. Jo glanced at her in the mirror. “And I’ve known Dr. Thompson for years. I knew what it would take to get her to leave her practice, and I knew she’d ask me to take some of her patients. People are so simple that way.”

“Why the break-in at her office? You’d already read my file.”

“Jim’ s idea. He does love red herrings. It worked beautifully, didn’t it? It also got us Harris’ chart, and he proved so useful.”

“What was the point? What did you get from me, information?”

“A little. Not as much as we’d hoped. Sherlock’s been very careful.” She had been, and it had infuriated Jo that she’d been so selective about her trust, but it was clear now that her caution had been warranted. “No, we had something quite different in mind for you. A bit of pressure in the right direction and we had hoped to make you a liability.”

“I have been.” Moriarty had clearly been aware of Sherlock’s distraction.

“I mean a moral liability.” Before Jo could ask for an explanation, Dr. Ginzberg sighed. “I admit I overlooked your potential at first. Before the Hammond affair I thought it would be far better to kill you outright. Fortunately for both of us, I was overruled.”

“By Moriarty.”

“You mean by Jim?” She was smiling, but Jo couldn’t think why. “No, not by him.”

“By the rest of them? His lieutenants?”

“Enough questions. Take us south.” Jo could hear the press of keys on her mobile, then silence. She waited, tense, for the other end to pick up, but it never did. “He must be out. He hates voicemail, but he’ll call back.”

“Jim Ryder, you mean?”

“Sherlock’s been busy, hasn’t she? Yes, I mean Jim. He’s very good at getting in touch when he wants to talk, but getting hold of him when you want to is quite another matter. I don’t think he’s given this number to anyone else. I’m afraid that means we won’t be returning your sister’s phone.”

“Why does he trust you?” she asked. Ginzberg said nothing, which told Jo she was taking care not to spill any information that might be used against her. That in turn meant Jo had a marginally higher chance of avoiding summary execution in the near future. She wished she could bring herself to feel happy about that. Not that it would take Sherlock long to work out the connection, now she knew what she was looking for.

The connection she was looking for.

“A psychiatrist,” Jo said, understanding at last. “That’s what they all have in common, isn’t it? You’re the one who brought them all into the mix.”

“Oh, very good,” Ginzberg said, in much the same tone Sherlock took when Jo had done something clever.

“And between you, you’ve set up some sort of criminal collaboration. Moriarty isn’t Jim after all, is he?”

“Jim enjoys the persona,” Ginzberg said. “Moriarty is whoever we need him to be. Still, full marks on the rest of it. You’re slower than Sherlock but not shabby at all. I did tell them not to underestimate you, though it seems I’ve done that myself.”

This was satisfying, though Jo had no idea what it meant. “How’s that?”

“I didn’t think you’d be quite so willing to remove yourself from the equation. That’s thrown a bit of a wrench into the plan.”

“What plan? How am I a moral liability?”

“My dear Dr. Watson, you were a few senseless deaths away from splitting at the seams. Given another month I could have talked you into putting a bullet in Sherlock’s head yourself.” Jo let that sink in. “Jim’s idea again, but he couldn’t have done it without me. The Colonel was reluctant, but we won him over in the end.”

“Good for you. But you’re wrong, by the way,” Jo said. They were running along a narrow riverside street, and Jo had begun to speed up now that they were out of the main traffic paths.

“Wrong about what?” Ginzberg sounded genuinely interested, just as she always did.

“I wouldn’t have done Sherlock in for you.”

“Your confidence is charming, really it is. You were near the breaking point.”

Everything was breathtakingly clear: the harsh wink of the street-lamps, the dark curve of bare road, the hum of breath through Jo’s throat. “So I decided to leave.”

“Yes. You chose an inconvenient time to do it.”

The phone rang once. “There he is,” Ginzberg said, raising it to answer.

Jo interrupted her before she could make the connection. “I don’t think you understand.”

Several miles to the north-east, her sister was recovering from emergency surgery, and if Ginzberg answered that phone Jim Ryder was going to cause a distraction that would make his previous efforts look like minor inconveniences. Somewhere out there, Sherlock was trying to fix everything, and Jo was determined that she would have the chance.

“I could tell I was being used,” she said.

Ginzberg paused, the phone still ringing at her ear. “I fail to see your point.”

“I didn’t like it.” Jo’s foot came down on the accelerator, and at the same moment she wrenched the wheel hard to the right. They flew across the opposite lane, met the inadequate barrier at a dizzying angle, and just as a shot rang out—far too late—they went over the edge and plunged toward the Thames.

For a moment they flew—or fell, Jo supposed, though she wasn’t sure she could tell the difference anymore. Then they hit the water and she was thrown into the belt she’d been so sure to put on back in the car park. Ginzberg hadn’t bothered, and Jo felt the impact of her body against the back of the driver’s seat. The car rocked violently as it dipped beneath the water. Jo lost her grip on the wheel, and her limbs were everywhere.

When everything faded back in, Jo blinked hard to clear the mist from her eyes. She was leaning forward against the seat-belt, the whole car listing toward her as it took on water from the bullet hole in the windscreen. Jo grappled with the belt buckle until it released her. She put up a hand to switch on the cabin light, then twisted in her seat to look for Ginzberg. The psychiatrist was limp and unmoving, wedged in an uncomfortable heap between the back of the driver’s seat and the rear door. A patch of her hair just above the right ear was matted with blood.

First things first. Jo bent down and groped in the crevice beneath her seat until her fingers found metal. Her back spasmed painfully in protest at this latest abuse, but it was worth it; the Browning was once again secure at her side. It took a bit longer to locate Harry’s mobile, but she finally found it in the pool of river water at her feet. She took one look at the cracked and frozen screen, gave it up as a bad job, and shoved it into her bra for safekeeping. She was going to be soaked through before long, and a few layers of clothing seemed its best chance of survival. Only then did she crane her neck, which hurt, dear God, to look up through the rear window. All she could see was dark water and a faint hint of light at the surface.

How deep was the river at high tide? No doubt Sherlock had long since committed the Port of London Authority’s tide tables to memory, but all Jo knew was that they were sinking.

The water from the windscreen ran over her thigh, dark and murky and ice-cold as the Thames came steadily in. The bullet hole was too narrow to fill the car quickly, but the cracked glass at its rim had begun to bow in. There was still a chance it might not get any worse. She might try plugging it, then sit there and wait quietly for the help that would surely come before long.

Jo had never been good at sitting around.

Her shoes were swollen with water and wouldn’t come off her feet. After a few moments of fumbling with cold and slippery fingers, her back clenching as she bent over, she pulled the keys from the ignition and used the sharper edge to saw right through the laces. That was better. She shrugged out of her jacket, which would only weigh her down, and considered how best to get out. As water continued to flow in, the car settled at a steeper angle. The rear door on the passenger’s side was by far the closest to the surface. Jo bit down on her lip, ignored the pain knifing along her spine, and levered herself into the back seat.

She was hesitant to move Ginzberg. There was the possibility of neck injury, of course, but there was also the fact that Jo’s whole body shuddered when she reached for the other woman’s shoulder. “Damn it, Jo,” she said aloud, pressing her palms to burning eyes.

An ominous sound came from the windscreen, and she glanced up to see a crack running the length of it. The bullet hole was larger now, and the leak it admitted had graduated to a gush of corresponding width. This was no time for emotional crises. She sucked in air and went to work on Ginzberg’s shoes.

It took an arm threaded under Ginzberg’s shoulders and a great heave to pull her along the seat. Jo’s back was never going to be the same. The other woman was pressed up against her tightly enough that Jo could feel her steady breathing, but her face was an alarming shade of grey. She was probably in shock. There was no time to do anything about it until they’d reached the surface. Jo took as deep a breath as her lungs would allow, reached for the door handle, and pushed.

Nothing. It wouldn’t budge. She checked the locks, tried again—but of course, it was the very water pressure that was now threatening to cave the windscreen in. Fortunately the car had manual windows. Jo adjusted her grip on Ginzberg with her right hand and grabbed the rotating handle with her left. She strained to turn it, using up valuable oxygen, but the pressure from outside was too great even for that, and the handle snapped off in her hand before she’d made any progress. Well, there were other ways. Jo reached for her pistol, levelled it at the window, and fired half of her twelve remaining rounds straight through the glass.

The water came in with great arterial spurts, spilling over Jo’s arms and down her body. She slammed the Browning into the glass. A web of cracks spread between the bullet holes, caving under the pressure until a large section of the window gave way. Jo flung her left arm across her face, felt the tear of skin and fabric as a few sharp edges caught her, and braced herself against the cascade of water. This was made harder when she started shivering. She tried the door again. No luck. Jo put her gun away, pulled Ginzberg up a bit, and waited under the spray.

It was more difficult than ducking sniper fire to hold still and calm while the water rose past her waist. She timed her breath to conserve oxygen and held her body steady against racking, involuntary shudders, for the Thames was achingly cold. When at last the water was high enough to lap at her neck, she drew the deepest breath her lungs would allow and tried the door one last time.

Almost before she could process the fact that it had worked, she was completely submerged. Jo planted her feet at the edge of the door and pushed, launching them both in a direction she hoped meant out and up.

She knew on some level that the river couldn’t be all that deep, but with the dead weight of Sonia Ginzberg over her arm and muscles stiff from cold it might as well have been five miles as five metres. Her lungs burned the worse with every kick. At length the groping fingers of her left hand broke the surface. Three desperate strokes later and she snatched a quick breath; she sank beneath the water again between kicks, but when she came back up she had time to blink the water out of her eyes and confirm that she was taking them in the right direction. Then down again despite her best efforts, Ginzberg dragging them both away from open air.

Jo kicked harder. The cold was becoming a real problem, making her limbs sluggish and numbing her hands. Her grip on Ginzberg slid a few inches, and the other woman’s legs tangled in her own. Jo floundered just below the surface, as unable to swim up as she was unwilling to let go. Finally her battered fingers decided for her, and she was left clutching at nothing.

She pulled against the river and surfaced. The water was still, though she knew there were currents running below. Jo took in air and twisted to look up at the bank. It was close, and she could just see the broken barrier and the lights from a vehicle that had pulled over. “Here!” she called in a voice she hoped would carry. “We’re here.”

It had been seconds since she’d let Ginzberg go. There might still be time. Jo bent her head and kicked once more, hands outstretched to feel a brush of cold skin or fabric.

Instead she felt only the pull of the river and the leaden weight of her arms. She was cold and slow, and she couldn’t breathe, and everywhere the water fought her. Her sense of direction deserted her until even up and down were synonymous. The Thames pressed at her mouth and nose, and when she could resist it no longer her lips and throat opened to admit water.

No sooner had they done so than a tight band wound across her chest, pulling her up and back. The next moments heaved past in flashes of light and dark until she found herself sprawled on a gravely slope hacking up filthy water. Someone had seized her from behind and still had her in a rigid grip, one hand pressed over her sternum so tightly Jo could feel every frantic beat of her own heart.

She gave up coughing and vomited instead. When she was done, the air came easier, and she could give part of her attention to the person who had pulled her out. “Where did you come from?” she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t make it past the first syllable.

“Can you get up?” Sherlock asked.

Of course it was Sherlock, impossibly and inevitably. Jo could feel the brush of dripping curls against her ear. She raised one shaking hand and pointed back down toward the dark expanse of the river. “I lost her,” she said between gasps.

“Ginzberg?” Sherlock said. “Drowned by now and not my concern. Joanna, we need to leave, and we need to do it now. Can you walk?”

She nodded and was hauled bodily to her feet, and together they stumbled up the steep bank.

When they came to the road, she had a hazy awareness that they’d travelled downstream from the site of the accident. The night was broken by shouting and the flash of emergency lights up the road, but Sherlock took them in the opposite direction. Jo put one shoeless foot before the other, content to ignore the cold and pain as long as Sherlock was navigating.

They dodged pedestrians and wheeled traffic alike, keeping to the shadows whenever possible as they walked for blocks and blocks before coming at last to an unlikely-looking doorway under a fire escape. Sherlock slid out from under Jo’s arm and did something to the lock that looked very illegal. They went inside without switching on any lights, and then one of the wall panels just disappeared. Suddenly Jo was dripping river water on the concrete floor of someplace very small and bright.

Sherlock leaned down to fiddle with a box on the floor. It gave an electric whirr, and Jo recognised it for a space heater. Where on earth were they?

“Clothes,” Sherlock said. Jo blinked at her. Sherlock let out a sharp sigh and reached for the hem of Jo’s jumper, pulling it cleanly over her head. “You’re beginning to display the classic signs of moderate hypothermia, Joanna, and I’m afraid an ambulance is out of the question. I have dry clothes. Now strip.”

Easier said than done, as her hands still weren’t working properly, but Sherlock’s determined efficiency soon had her naked and shuddering. There were towels to sponge off the damp, and then she stepped into a dry pair of track bottoms and shrugged on a pullover with too-long arms that flapped grotesquely off her wrists.

“Sit,” Sherlock said.

Jo sat obediently. Sherlock had to grab her by the elbows to prevent her landing on the floor, guide her back a few steps, and drop her on something flat and soft. She closed her eyes for a moment and opened them again to see Sherlock peering down at her from behind a matted curtain of black hair.

“You’re wet, too,” she said through chattering teeth.

“So I am,” Sherlock said. “Take your feet off the floor before you catch frostbite.” Sherlock pulled the space heater closer and set about finding her own change of clothes. Jo curled herself on what proved to be a thin cot and waited for the shudders to subside.

“This is not medically advisable,” she pointed out some time later.

Sherlock paused in the act of tying on a grey dressing gown. “What would you recommend?”

“For hypothermia? Not moving the victim, for a start.”

“I judged the near-certainty of a bullet to your forehead more of a threat than the very slight possibility of cardiac arrest.” Sherlock bent over her, pressing two fingers to the carotid artery. “Pulse is fine,” she reported, “and your lips have some colour in them now. You’re not an acute case.”

Jo let her head fall back against the wall. “What a relief.”

Sherlock grinned at her, an expression as irresistible as it was fleeting, and let her fingers slide off Jo’s neck. “There’s a duvet,” she said. Jo allowed herself to be wrapped in it. “Would you recommend tea?”

“You’re not going to make it,” Jo said in disbelief. She was proved wrong a few minutes later when Sherlock presented her with a steaming mug. “No milk?”

“Where would I keep it?” Sherlock asked. She pressed the mug into Jo’s hands but snatched it right back out again when Jo nearly dropped it.

“Too hot,” Jo said, curling her fingers back under the duvet.

“It can wait.”

Jo shrugged in exhausted agreement and, finally, gathered herself to take stock of their surroundings. It was a narrow room, perhaps half the size of Jo’s own, with concrete walls and flickering fluorescent lights. Otherwise the predominant feature seemed to be clothing. They’d pushed past a rack of it on their way in, and now that Jo was capable of processing detail she saw it ranged from grungy jeans to evening wear to a prim and well-pressed cotton dress she couldn’t imagine on Sherlock. A mass of shoes and boots in similarly eclectic styles overflowed in one corner. There was a sink set into one wall, a small cupboard, and an electric kettle sitting on the floor.

“All the amenities,” she said. No refrigerator, though, which explained her comment about the milk. “Where are we?”

“In Leamouth,” Sherlock replied, which was no doubt accurate but not at all what Jo meant. She was bent over the cupboard, pouring something into a glass. The unmistakable smell of hydrogen peroxide wafted in Jo’s direction.

“What are you doing?”

“Diluting this to a six percent solution.” She raised the glass to eye level. “Perhaps a bit closer to seven percent. It’s hard to judge; I should have stocked a burette. You don’t mind a bit of dermal bleaching?”

“What—”

“You’ve just taken a swim in the Thames with open scratches,” she said to Jo’s confusion. “That’s an invitation to infection.”

“I hope you have an MSDS for that,” Jo said, watching her dip a flannel into the antiseptic. “The cuts aren’t deep. Thank God for safety glass. And inoculations.”

“You’ll have been vaccinated against hepatitis,” Sherlock said.

“And everything else under the sun.” What the NHS hadn’t required, the army had. “It’s not like you to be so careful.”

“I’ve done extensive experiments on Thames water. Would you like to hear the results?”

“God, no.” Jo accepted the bleach and the flannel and set about wiping her forearms where the window glass had left long, thin marks. It stung, but her hands were less clumsy than they had been. “How did you find me?”

Sherlock was turned away, still rummaging through the cupboard. All Jo could see of her face was the long curving line of one cheekbone. “I deduced where you were. I deduced where you were going. We met in the middle. Quite simple, really.”

“Sherlock.”

“You changed psychiatrists,” she said. “I should have realised. You stopped filling your prescriptions several months ago and Ella Thompson hasn’t commented on your blog since the Hammond case, but I didn’t connect it with Jim Ryder’s childhood therapy and Sebastian Moran’s psychiatric evaluations until this afternoon.”

“Moran?”

“The army colonel. He liked the war a little too much. Rather like you, in fact, but with drastically different consequences. Then I remembered the prescription and the blog.” Her hands had gone still, as though she’d forgotten whatever she wanted from the cupboard, but she didn’t turn to meet Jo’s eyes. “That was when I rang, and it was clear enough when something went wrong. She overheard our conversation, I take it.”

“Enough to pull my own gun on me.”

Sherlock nodded, her back still to Jo. “Working out who you’d been with took a bit of a leap, but you’d just mentioned Hammond, so it didn’t take long for Ginzberg to occur to me. Someone warned Wilkins the day after we visited her offices, and I knew her clinical interests.”

“Trauma victims,” Jo said, remembering, “and criminal psychopathology.”

“It fit. You’d been with her when I rang; that meant her offices.”

“You can’t have known that for certain.”

Sherlock rode right over her objection. “She couldn’t have dealt with you there, not where there’d be witnesses, so I had to work out where she would have gone. I’ve had my eye on a warehouse near the Royal Victoria Dock. I think it’s where Ryder, Moran, and Ginzberg met, on the rare occasions they did.”

Jo put the baritone voice on her mobile together with the shooter who’d made her life a living hell for the last several weeks. “Moran mentioned a warehouse.”

“It was a logical choice. There were only so many routes she might have taken, and they would all come to the river before long. I cut straight there until I saw cars pulled over and idiots gawking into the Thames.”

“You got all that from the way I hung up on you?” Jo said, disbelieving.

“I came to a series of reasonable conclusions.”

“Guesses.”

Sherlock’s fist slammed into the cupboard door, the best indication so far that this had shaken her as much as Jo. “There wasn’t time to be certain. If it wasn’t Ginzberg’s office, I had nothing to start with; if it wasn’t the warehouse I didn’t know where they might take you.”

Luckily for Jo, Sherlock’s version of a wild guess was more reliable than anyone else’s absolute confidence. “Worked out all right, didn’t it?”

“As you say. I was right.” Saying it seemed to settle her, even if the assertion lacked something of Sherlock’s usual arrogance. She bent down to root through the heap of soaked clothing on the floor. When she straightened she had Jo’s Browning in one hand and her mobile in the other.

As changes of subject went, she might have done worse. “Oh, good,” Jo said, reaching for them both. Sherlock set the gun well out of her reach, which was probably just as well given how badly she was still shivering, but handed the mobile over with a curious look.

“It’ll never work, Joanna,” Sherlock said, as though speaking to a small child.

Jo made a face. “I’m not incoherent. And it doesn’t need to.” She turned the cracked display toward Sherlock so she could see the number still frozen there. “That’s Moriarty—Jim, I mean.”

Sherlock stared. “That’s a landline.”

Jo smiled at her. “It is, isn’t it?”

“That’s a _London landline_. Is he mad?”

“I doubt it’s the line he uses to taunt his archenemies. Ginzberg said she was the only one who had that number. Can you use it?”

She’d already whipped out her own mobile. “A landline means a fixed location. It means permanence. He’ll abandon it the moment he realises what’s happened, but there’ll be a paper trail at the very least.”

“Who are you texting?”

“Mycroft. I sent one earlier to him and Lestrade both; they’ll be at the warehouse by now wondering where we are. I may as well point him in the right direction.”

“I thought—”

“Things have changed. In any case, this is the part he’s good at. I’ve already done all the footwork for him.”

“Have you, then?”

Sherlock gave her a quick smile. “A palpable hit, Joanna. _You_ have. This is really very good.”

Jo thought it unlikely they’d ever get closer than that to making up for everything that had gone wrong between them, but an honest-to-God compliment from Sherlock was almost better than a real apology. “You’re not tracking him down yourself?”

“That would be inadvisable. I saw our sniper looking out from the Embankment where you went in. I don’t know how far loyalty goes in Moriarty’s organisation, but I suspect they’ll take exception to the death of one of their own. Your sister’s flat won’t be safe, and neither will Baker Street. No-one knows about this place, not even Mycroft. We’ll stay here until the dust settles.”

“I don’t think I can do any more running.”

“There’ll be none tonight. Give that here.” Jo handed over the glass and flannel and then withdrew into the depths of the duvet. Sherlock frowned at her. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” She was thinking of Ginzberg and of whether she might have tried harder, of the satisfaction she’d imagined at putting a bullet in Moriarty’s head, of what she’d become in the last several months and what it meant.

“It’s so easy to read you, it’s hardly worth the trouble,” Sherlock said. “You have your self-recriminatory face on again. Stop it. I’ll only say this once more: You wouldn’t have shot Sutton, you were not responsible for Griffiths or Harry or any of the others, and you’ve nearly managed to kill yourself dragging the woman who was out of a sunken vehicle. I am intimately familiar with the vilest permutations of the human condition, and none of them bear the slightest resemblance to you. Are you going to drink your tea?’

“No,” Jo said.

“Then go to sleep. You’re exhausted and I want you recovered tomorrow.”

Jo lay down without argument, the pain in her back a reminder that recovery would be a long time in coming. Her eyes slid closed and she forced herself into calm, regular breaths. She still felt slow and weak with cold, and when she tried to clear her thoughts they were replaced by a harsh white nothing. Surely it wasn’t fair that even the inside of her own head had become hostile territory.

For what might have been minutes or hours she listened to Sherlock pace back and forth in that narrow space. Three steps and pause, three steps and pause, her bare feet sliding almost noiselessly along the cement floor. Jo turned her face into the mattress and tried to relax into the lingering shivers.

Only two steps this time, and then Sherlock stopped pacing. “You’re still cold,” she said. Before Jo could open her eyes or reply, she pulled the covers back and climbed into the bed, wriggling into the narrow space between Jo and the wall.

“What are you doing?”

“Stop talking.” She wrapped one arm across Jo’s ribs and pulled her knees forward until Jo was tucked into six feet of consulting detective, the thin body an outline of surprising warmth against Jo’s frozen back. Her curls feathered damply against the back of Jo’s neck.

Jo took a moment to contemplate this minor miracle.

True to form, Sherlock interrupted her. “You’re thinking. That’s my job. I’m much better at it.”

“What are you thinking, then?”

“About tomorrow. Now stop distracting me and go to sleep.”

Sherlock settled more comfortably into the mattress. Jo felt as wrung out as the bleached flannel now lying on the sink. Assured that someone else had taken over, she let the illusion of self-control slip away and did as she was told.

*******

She dreamed of lying in bed with someone at her back and realising that the arm around her was much too thin to be Scott’s. A question on her lips, she turned over to find herself staring into the drowned and bloated face of Sonia Ginzberg.

Jo started awake with the smell of river-water filling her nostrils. She clenched her fists in the duvet until her pounding heart had slowed. At length she pushed herself upright, the aftereffects of nightmare fading as she became aware that she was desperate for the loo.

The banal discomfort of it was just what she needed to bring her back to earth. Sherlock wasn’t in the bed beside her, but neither was she anywhere else to be seen. This was unsettling but not unexpected. She’d left the overhead lights on, which at least meant Jo didn’t stub her toes on anything as she got out of bed; she’d also left a note on the door, but this was less helpful.

 _  
Don’t open the door for any reason. Stay precisely where you are. If anyone comes in, shoot him at once.  
_

  


Jo thought of ignoring it, but she’d been too disoriented the night before to have any real idea of what she’d find if she opened the door now. On the other hand, there wasn’t anywhere in that little room to hide a toilet. She spent an uncomfortable few minutes considering the kettle (it would serve Sherlock right for locking her in a closet without facilities, but Jo was hoping for tea at some point) before noting the way the concrete sloped toward one corner. There was a drain set into the floor and a loo roll beside it. Unhygienic, but once upon a time she’d been used to worse, and at least there were cleaning supplies.

That taken care of, she put the kettle on and set about cleaning and reassembling the gun Sherlock had left to dry in pieces. There was a can of WD-40 sitting next to it. Jo preferred a dedicated gun oil, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. When she’d finished she sat down on the bed, cradled the Browning in both hands, and had herself a good long cry for the first time since she’d laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes.

Half an hour later, she’d washed up and was going through the cupboard in search of food when the door opened. She spun without hesitation and pointed the gun straight in Sherlock’s face.

“You’re lucky I didn’t take that note seriously,” Jo said conversationally. “Shoot first and ask questions later is a stupid system. There’s tea if you want it.”

“I see you’re feeling better.” Sherlock closed and bolted the door, a duffel bag tucked under one arm. She was wearing a baseball cap and pair of paint-streaked coveralls under a too-large jacket, and somehow she’d taken several inches off her height. The change was uncanny.

“Where’ve you been, and what time is it? And where are we?”

“Out, just after seven in the morning, and Leamouth.”

“Only one of those answers was at all helpful.”

“And none of those questions was at all interesting, so I’m still one up on you.”

“Let’s go with number three. What is this place?”

“You like it? I have two more in different parts of the city. It’s taken me years to build them up properly. They’re convenient when I need a change of clothes and haven’t time to run home, or when a case goes sour and I need a few hours to recuperate.” She took the mug right out of Jo’s hand and sniffed at it, then made a face. “No milk.”

“You might have bought some. This place has less actual food than our kitchen, which is impressive. I nearly ate the tinned beans, but there’s nothing to open them and nothing to cook them with if I could get them open.”

“There’s a can-opener in the snakeskin purse on the rack.”

“Of course, because that makes more sense than putting it in the cupboard. Out of curiosity, why have you got pasta sauce? There’s nothing to heat it.”

“There’s the kettle.”

“You’re not serious.”

“You’ve never cooked pasta in an electric kettle? A child could do it.”

“Of course I could cook the _pasta_ bits, it’s the sauce that—” Jo gave up. “Please say you brought something better with you.”

“I have.”

“Something edible?”

Sherlock said, “This eternal fixation on filling your stomach is mindless and unevolved,” which meant no.

“Cold beans it is. I wish you’d thought to install a microwave. If you’re going to hide me here forever, I’ll need something to live on.”

“Not forever. A few hours at most.”

“And then it’ll be safe?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “That landline belonged to a flat in Southwark.”

“Past tense?”

“Neighbours rang for the fire brigade just after midnight. They’re reporting it as a gas leak.”

“So much for that.”

“There’ll still be a paper trail, but it’ll slow things down. What it means is that Jim’s been routed, and the rest of them with him. He’ll be desperate.”

“And desperate means dangerous. What then?”

“You had the right idea, leaving the country.” It must have cost Sherlock something to say that, but she didn’t show it. “London’s too hot now. I’ll send Mycroft everything I have and leave town until things have settled down.”

Jo hadn’t missed the singular pronoun. “I thought you’d hate that.”

“Jim Ryder promised to burn the heart out of me, and I should be the one to put him down. Of course I hate it,” Sherlock said. She dumped the jacket and hat on the bed and started going through the duffel bag. “I’m not accustomed to running, but under the circumstances it seems wise.”

“Circumstances?”

Sherlock gestured in Jo’s direction.

“Oh,” Jo said, struck by this but not at all sure how to respond to it. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anybody’s ‘circumstances’ before.”

Sherlock glanced up, uncertain. “You’re offended?”

“No. It’s….nice, actually.”

“Good. There are other options for you, of course.”

“For example?”

“There’s still Mycroft,” Sherlock said, her tone carefully bland. “He can put you in hiding. It might be longer than you’d like, but it wouldn’t be permanent.”

“What about the army?”

“He never intended to send you back to them, Joanna.” Sherlock’s expression said Jo was back to her usual slow self. “My brother has far better uses for crack shots with a misguided love for Queen and country, especially if they also have medical training and the ability to keep their mouths shut. But if you’d prefer that, I’m sure he could arrange something. Just remember any plane you get on at his behest is as likely to land you in North Korea or Colombia as in Afghanistan.”

This was intriguing. It would certainly get her out of Moriarty’s way. Jo thought about it. Then she thought about the look on Sherlock’s face, the one that was so easy to read precisely because she was trying so hard to be inscrutable.

“He’ll manage without me,” Jo said. “So where are we going?”

Sherlock started pulling things out of the bag, but not before Jo had seen her eyes light up. An e-ticket receipt joined the jacket on the bed. “We have two tickets to Palermo under false names.” Several more sheets of paper came floating to the mattress. “And rail tickets to Glasgow, and I’ve booked us first-class seats to Seoul.”

“Which are we taking?”

“None of them. We’re taking a cargo ship to Calais. It won’t be the height of luxury, but it’ll get us across the channel without any record of our leaving.”

“A holiday in France it is.”

“We’re only passing through. I don’t have many contacts there, but I do have a friend in Interlaken who won’t ask questions.”

“A friend?”

“A former client. A banker, actually, whose vaults I protected from a clever sort of burglary a few years back. The case hinged on the colour of the night watchman’s hair. Remind me to tell you what happened; it’s just the sort of thing you’d put in that ridiculous blog.”

“I don’t think I’ll be writing anything up for a while,” Jo said. “Does it have to be Interlaken? That’s a posh sort of skiing village, isn’t it? I’ve had enough of the cold.”

“Switzerland’s stunning this time of year,” Sherlock said. “Now hurry and wash up. I bought soap and shampoo.”

“That’s considerate.”

Her nose wrinkled. “I’m not stowing away with you if you still smell of Thames water.”

“I love you too, you great prat,” Jo said. Sherlock froze. Jo reached for the shampoo. “We’re good, then?”

“We’re fine.” Sherlock’s eyes were wide, but she let go of the bottle without resistance.

“It’s all fine,” Jo agreed. “Drink your tea.” She had left Scott and abandoned Harry, and Moriarty was Ginzberg and Ginzberg was dead, and meanwhile the rest of them wanted her head on a platter, but for now it was all just fine.

 

  
_FIN_   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the Sherlock Big Bang Challenge, and I would be terribly remiss if I didn't link you to the incredible [artwork](http://sleightofhand.livejournal.com/130109.html) by sleightofhand and [fanmix](http://community.livejournal.com/zellersee/19705.html) by crediniaeth. Check them out and leave comments! I can't get over how wonderful it's been to collaborate with them on this project, and their work is stunning.
> 
> 23-5-2011: ETA that Le Prince Lutin has also made [artwork](http://chronicdoodling.deviantart.com/favourites/#/d3gx3r4)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Things They Carried (Fanmix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4652100) by [keatsinqueue (crediniaeth)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crediniaeth/pseuds/keatsinqueue)




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